Institution
by CaptainRaspberry
Summary: Follow Oriné 'Fulsamee's rise to becoming a celebrated warrior within the Covenant, from humble beginnings to a family scandal...
1. Test on the Sands

**Author's Note: For the sake of my many human readers, I have taken the liberty of translating the Covenant units of distance and time, as well as their language, into their human equivalents for ease of reading.**

Chapter 1: Test on the Sands

The burning, parched desert world of Jisako was far from the comforts and lush beauty of Sanghelios. Gone was any hope of a constant source of water, of the pleasantry one could find in the native inhabitants, of the rich food and good company. Biting wind, scorching sun, and dangerous predators had replaced it all. It was the ultimate test for the Sangheili warrior, an ancient rite from the time of war with the Prophets. Warriors-in-training had been sent to this planet for generations, forced to spend the harsh days and frigid nights of an entire year with each other to learn the camaraderie required of them during their service to the Covenant.

It was still so, as the small camp of Sangheili adolescents prepared themselves to hunt for a morning meal. The year was almost up as far as they could tell, but the group had quickly lost track of time in the struggle to survive. Already two of them had died, one killed by a massive predator and the other by dehydration. The warriors-in-training had held funeral ceremonies as best they could, but they lacked the resources to spare for a pyre; the bodies also couldn't be buried nearby because of the creatures they would undoubtedly attract and the risk of contaminating an as-of-yet unknown source of water. So the two young students, taken before their time and departed on their Great Journeys, had been left in a valley far to the east.

Dull weapons and dwindling supplies were also now a daily reality. The ceremonial swords they had been given had blunted and chipped over time, the shields having been long-since recommissioned as shelter-building materials, and the additional spears and arrows they had created themselves were damaged from prolonged use.

One Sangheili was laid out on his stomach on the sand a distance from the camp, his tired eyes sweeping over the horizon. The silhouettes of distant mountains were all that he could see, but he would remain ever vigilant. His two fingers and two thumbs of his right hand gripped the shaft of his spear, the other hand resting lax by the tattered sarong that hung from his waist and ready to grab the sword anchored there if need be. He was all but certain that swinging the sword even once and striking a predator's hide would break the blade, but the spear too had become weak with overuse. It didn't matter which one he broke, only which one he broke first.

Sand crunched and shifted behind him, but the warrior-in-training didn't flinch: he recognized the sound of friendly footfalls easily. A shadow fell across his slowly-warming back, a back that was now rough and leathery where it had been soft and tender scarcely a year ago.

"Oriné, my friend," the newcomer said, "it is time to eat."

With a sigh of relief, Oriné 'Fulsam pushed himself up from the sand and forced himself to stand on two wobbly legs. "Praise be to the Forerunners," he muttered, turning to his companion Yarna 'Orgalm, "I'm starving."

Chuckling slightly, the older Sangheili put a comforting arm around his shoulder. "We all know how trying night-time guard duty can be," Yarna said, leading his comrade back to the camp. He wore the same style of cloth draped around his waist as Oriné, and also had a sword hanging at his side. Though older and from a far nobler family, Yarna had formed a strong bond with the other, less Honored Sangheili, to the point of each considering the other his Brother. Then again, they had achieved Brotherhood status with their twenty-six companions after a year of fighting and shedding blood and tears together.

* * *

_Oriné had never ridden in a dropship before, and exhilarated at this new opportunity. He was close to what would be his full height, he knew, but there was a significant enough difference between that and his current bearing that his eyes weren't quite level with the viewing slot. Still, he had a good enough view that he was able to catch the top of the horizon as the Spirit leveled out._

_As far as he could see, it was all sand. He stood in awe, firmly rooted to the spot by a magnetic harness, as he watched the dunes race by underneath. This planet was much different than Sanghelios, which was tropical in nature. Occasionally he spotted a mountain or valley made of stone and hard dirt, but only once did he ever see a lake of water, maybe only a large pond. Remembering his father's advice, Oriné made a mental note of its position and tried to keep it in mind as the Spirit proceeded on its course. If they were lucky, the dropship would put down somewhere close by._

_It was a long time before it settled to the sand below._

_When the large door fell open before them, Oriné and the three other Sangheili on his side jumped down the makeshift ramp and onto the sand. His hooves burned and he yelped, dancing first on one foot and then the other. Some of the others sniggered at his misfortune, but most were too busy doing something similar._

_Other Spirits settled down and disgorged their cargo, and the Sangheili all began to mingle amongst each other. Finally he adjusted to the heat and was able to look around. There were thirty Sangheili adolescents here in total, each dressed in the finest robes of his Lineage. Oriné's family was moderately Honored and thus bore simple but elegant designs around the edges. The care with which they were sewn into the smooth fabric, as well as the images created, attested to the fact that most of his Lineage's accomplishments were in the naval field, with some having achieved a level of glory in the army. His brother was in the navy, but ships bored Oriné; so much time spent jetting between planets. It seemed like a waste. This was what he loved, being surrounded by a tangible environment with its own unique difficulties._

_One of the Sangheili caught his eye, however. The designs on his robe were intricate, complex, and covered almost all of the fabric. A hush fell over those Sangheili that took notice: he was the son of a Councilor. The most Honored and revered of the Lineages. Oriné tried to place the crest to a name, but came up with nothing. He was not worried; perhaps he would have been more intimidated if this honored Councilor's son wasn't also dancing from one hoof to the other._

_From one of the ships came a Sangheili dressed in cobalt-blue armor. Once his presence was realized, all of the youths ceased motions and stood at rapt attention, whether or not the ground still burned them. This individual was a soldier of the Covenant, an Elite Minor. He represented everything that they were trying to become._

"_Your ears," he said. "You are about to embark on this most deadly and treacherous of tasks, but to survive means becoming a member of the greatest assembly known in our time. If you pass this test, you shall be inducted as Elites of the Holy Covenant and sent to a war academy for your proper education in fighting, tactics, and discipline._

"_You will be on your own out here. We will not come until a full year on Sanghelios has passed, which means no one will check your progress or be aware of any achievements or failures that you make here. Other groups of Sangheili children like you have been put on this planet. Do not attempt to contact or interfere with them; the only time you may interact is if you contest them for resources. In that instance you must follow the rules of honorable combat._

"_This is mid-day for Jisako. A crate will be deposited that contains enough swords and shields for the lot of you. I suggest you take the time before nightfall to find a suitable location and set up camp." Without so much as a formal farewell, the Elite Minor turned and boarded the ship. The Spirits lifted into the air and flew off. As promised, they left behind a large purple crate with thirty hard metal swords and shields. The crowd of Sangheili gathered around it and began to distribute the weapons amidst themselves. There was no childish bickering or competition; that had been forced out of them through their parents' pre-training. Everyone here had already earned their Clan name, a sign of maturity. Nobody would dishonor their Lineage now._

_Oriné had just received his sword and shield when he heard whispers grow loud behind him. When he turned, he found that the rest of the Sangheili behind him had parted to allow the Councilor's son forward. For a moment, he couldn't recall proper protocol and simply stood there, unable to speak. Finally he remembered his place and offered his fellow Sangheili the weapons._

"_For you, Excellency," he said, using the honorific of the military. "You are worthier of them than I."_

_Having expected the slightly older one to simply take the offering, Oriné was surprised when the Sangheili scowled and shoved the weapons back at him. Now fearing that he was in for retribution, or at least some stern words, Oriné was completely taken by surprise when the Councilor's son turned to the rest of the group, seized the collar of his robe, and proceeded to tear and rend it until it was only tatters at his feet._

"_Behold!" he cried, holding the largest piece in his hand, which still clearly displayed the Lineage crest. "I do not have a divine body, nor golden skin, nor diamond blood! I am simply a Sangheili like the rest of you!"_

_He turned back to Oriné. "Keep your honor and your pity both," he said, pushing past the younger Sangheili and retrieving a sword and shield himself. "I don't care for them."_

_Oriné watched and nodded. He liked him already._

* * *

Primitive was the best description of the camp: five tents composed the warriors' domiciles, the structures made from the bones of creatures and the coverings from their hides. Each could hold six sleeping Sangheili, but two had only five after the deaths. At every moment of the day four of the warriors-in-training were on guard duty except for breakfast when all were expected to be back for morning meal and prayer. The other twenty-four would either be working in the camp or out hunting for food.

As they approached, a Sangheili wearing a toga with a sash made out of hide was meeting with three others, the rest of the nighttime guard. His name was Olah 'Seroum, the "leader" of the camp. He had distinguished himself early on; one of the two killed had originally been the leader, now Olah was in charge, and though he was often strict he was certainly the best they could ask for.

"Report, Oriné," he demanded.

With great fatigue, the young Sangheili recounted his night's duty in as few words as possible. "Nothing of note, aside from a few scavengers that were interested in the fire we lit. It was very quiet."

Olah nodded, apparently satisfied. "Good. We shall eat, say prayer, then you and the other guards may rest." Oriné nodded and trod towards the area where the food had been laid out. The sun's heat was beginning to register now that it had been in the sky for roughly an hour. With the added light came added strain on their bodies: it was probably just an effect of the heat and their own psyche, but whenever it was daytime all the scars and wounds they suffered felt all the more prominent. They had grown used to this, even using the increased awareness the feeling brought on to their advantage while hunting; such opportunities didn't remove the factor of discomfort, but it was beneficial.

Taking a meager helping of food, Oriné took a seat in the sand beside his friends and lay his spear down next to him. The meat was tough, as always, but driven by almost perpetual hunger they tore through the sun-burnt flesh ravenously. Constantly they shifted, adjusting for the swords on their hips. Predator attacks weren't uncommon, especially in broad daylight, so no Sangheili was to be unarmed _ever. _Such negligence was what had caused the death of one of the warriors-in-training. He who had already broken his sword beyond repair would cut down the hilt and use rocks and sand to wear down the blade to dagger-length.

After they had all finished eating, Olah called out for peace. "Now we pray to the Forerunners," he said, and they stood up only to drop back down on their knees and adopt the prayer stance. As one, they began to recite:

_Forerunner hear us now and forever,_

_Forerunner save us from Heresy unwilling,_

_Forerunner banish evil from us and guide our hands,_

_Forerunner, we do thy bidding._

_Stranded here in the desert, we ask for courage,_

_When cornered by beasts, we ask for strength,_

_As we suffer from thirst, we ask for cunning,_

_As you grant it, we are thankful._

_When we join the Holy Covenant as warriors_

_We will fight to protect and preserve your legacy_

_Against those like the Humans and Heretics who defile your memory_

_Before we follow you on the Great Journey._

_In your memory we find Glory,_

_And in your example we find Salvation._

They finished, looking up into the sky as they almost felt their faith being strengthened and their hope rejuvenating. They stood and began their daily tasks. No hunting parties would be sent out that day, but repairs had to be made to equipment and the tents. Oriné and the other guards were sent into a less-damaged tent in order to catch up on the sleep they had missed. Secretly grateful for the break in duty, each collapsed happily into his scratchy bedding and fell into slumber.

The young warrior-in-training dreamed of beautiful, wonderful Sanghelios. He imagined the day when he would return, one of torrential rain that would make all the buildings and roads slick with moisture. He would stand outside all day long when, at sunset, the rain would cease and the clouds would break and let the light shine through, warming his skin in a pleasant way that he had not known in a long time. Then he would stretch out on the balcony of his family's modest home and look up into the sky, stars or no, and watch the purple hues of shuttles and dropships pass overhead. He thought of his mother and father, how happy they would be to see him and how proud they would be of his success. Both he and his father would sit in the foreroom and share tales of their survival on Jisako, their mother laughing at the jokes or blanching at the horrors, yet constantly departing and returning to bring new refreshments. And his sister would visit from the convent just to see him in his glory as a new and official member of the Covenant, as an Elite.

He dreamed for a good long time, losing himself in the fantasy, when three other Sangheili rushing into the tent suddenly woke him and the other three, looking quite disheveled. Oriné spotted Yarna among them.

"What's going on?" he asked urgently, but his friend merely waved off his concern.

"A sandstorm just popped up," he replied, brushing the loose particles from the textured grooves and scars in his skin, "Nothing to be worried about." Nodding, the younger Sangheili tried to go back to sleep, but the peace he had felt previously was not forthcoming. So instead he occupied himself by staring up at the ceiling and tracing patterns in the hide while the winds whipped about the tent, trying to rip it from its secure base in the desert floor.

* * *

_Searching for water was one of the hardest and most dangerous tasks the Sangheili faced while on Jisako. It was sparse, it was limited, and what little existed was far from camp and from other sources. From what they had seen in the past month, what little water there was on the planet came from the rain, which was itself slightly acidic. Though they had set up rain-catchers in the camp by disassembling the large crate that had been left with them, until they created a large enough store they still needed another source._

_Oriné was not the leader of the camp, but he found himself in the unfortunate position of leading the seven-Sangheili hunting party as they hiked up a narrow mountain path. They all carried their swords with them, just in case they came across a predator or prey. Most of the creatures here were armored and armed with some defense or another, even if their role in the ecosystem was merely a "grazing" animal (though the tough, poisonous vegetation was completely inedible to the Sangheili)._

_The group reached the top of the path and looked around warily. There was indeed a small deposit of water in what looked like a spring basin, and though Oriné was relieved to see it he knew that such a source would also be known to the local fauna. The area they had found was ringed on all sides, except for the one from which they would enter, by sheer cliffs. There was a considerable distance from the edge of the pool to the sides of the cliffs, enough room for thick vegetation to have grown in and for predators to hide amongst that same vegetation._

_Remembering his father's training, Oriné slowly crept to the edge of the bushes (such as they were) and waited. His companions followed suit. As he listened, he thought about the position of this particular alcove, how even if the wind were blowing it would be difficult for it to enter here and disturb the plant-life; knowing this, he listened for rustling that would betray the presence of another creature. After several moments of waiting, there was nothing._

_He turned to his friends. "It is safe for now," he said in a low tone, "but we must act quickly. Fill your skins and we shall depart immediately." They nodded and moved forward, pulling their water skins from their belts and dipping them into the pool. So far, the Sangheili had been able to make mediocre supplies from the remains of the animals they had hunted and slain._

_They filled the skins quickly and turned to make their escape when Oriné heard a peculiar clicking sound. He motioned for the others to stop, but they were so eager to get away from the anxiousness of the place that they paid him no heed. As he cried out a warning, two shapes darted around the walls and fell upon the unfortunate Sangheili._

_Immediately Oriné had his sword in hand and swung at the first shape, the blade striking and digging deep into alien flesh. The creature, whatever it was, screamed and fell off the poor form, twitching and struggling on the ground, staining the dirt and sand with an oily green blood. He was about to set upon the other when the Sangheili trapped beneath it pulled his own sword loose and drove it up into the thing's belly. It cried out much the same as the other and twisted and writhed on the blade, but the warrior-in-training that it had pinned simply shoved the weapon deeper. Blood ran down his arms and stained the tatters of his robe, but there was a savage determination in the Sangheili's eyes; finally the creature gave a final twitch, vomited blood onto its killer, and died._

_The Sangheili that killed it tossed the body aside and stood, brushing the bodily fluids off his form. "Are you all right, Olah?" Oriné asked, checking him over for wounds._

"_I breathe," the brusque youth said, and nodded to the other Sangheili that had been attacked. "You there, do you yet live?"_

"_My shoulder hurts," the other groaned, standing up and brushing the sand off his tunic. Oriné examined him and found that the creature had managed to sink its beak into his flesh, but not very deeply. Tearing a strip of cloth from his own robe, Oriné bandaged the wound tightly._

_Standing back, Oriné smiled and met the Sangheili's green eyes. "I must say Rtas, if you continue to run so headlong into danger, one day you'll lose much more than just some skin from your shoulder." Rtas gave a wry smirk then turned his attention to the creature that had jumped him._

_It was a long, low thing, possessing a narrow segmented body and a dozen legs. Its head was oblong with two large eyes, now glazed over with death, and a short but sharp beak. Sangheili blood stained its maw, but more of its own lifeblood spilled out into a growing puddle. Oriné had landed a good hit, damaging its spine and heart in one blow, condemning it to a slow and ignoble death. None of the Sangheili could generate much sympathy for it._

_Olah turned to the others in the group. "These may be good to eat," he said. "Two of you will carry each one down the path, and we shall alternate who carries." They nodded and moved to pick up the creatures._

_Rtas watched them work. "Some type of predator, I would imagine."_

_Oriné nodded. "Hopefully, that's as big as they come."_

_It wasn't._

* * *

Oriné was awoken without warning as a tremor ran through the ground. As he fought his way out of sleepiness, he could hear the terrified cries of his comrades. Leaping up from the desert floor and grabbing his spear, the young Sangheili rushed out of the tent and gazed in awe of what he saw.

Right there, in the middle of the camp, stood a Yorahii beast. It was several meters taller than the warriors-in-training, with a rock-hard hide and many serrated teeth. Its quadruple-hinged jaw fell open and let loose an intense roar, shaking the earth beneath their hooves. Several of the students already had their spears and swords raised, and a couple were making an initial attack. Unfortunately, one's spear broke and the other wasn't able to hit one of its vulnerable joints, and with a mighty swing of its head it sent the two flying backwards and into the sand.

Hearing the commotion, Olah came rushing out of his tent and surveyed the scene. "Warriors, defensive stance!" he cried out, rushing to join his brothers-in-arms, "Corral the beast before you attack!"

The young Sangheili children circled around the predator, dodging its blunt forehead as it thrust towards some of them. As their comrades narrowly avoided the teeth of the creature, the warriors-in-training at the back would strike its thick hide with their spears, prompting it to turn and attack them so the others would have time to rest and then follow the same pattern. As the group had found out early during their stay on the planet, the best way to subdue a Yorahii was to exhaust it and then kill it while it couldn't fight back. There was no honor in such an action, but it was necessary for their survival: the Yorahii before them would be enough to feed them for several weeks.

However, the suppressed jubilation each adolescent felt was dispersed as they heard a second cry come from outside the camp just before a second Yorahii crashed straight through the tent and charged for the collection of Sangheili. Olah called for them all to scatter, but the order came too late for some as three warriors-in-training were trampled underfoot.

Coming together, the Yorahiié bellowed their challenge at the camp before beginning to rampage through the ranks. The smaller, nimbler Sangheili leaped out of the way, even able to pick up and carry off their three injured comrades; as they were dragged out of harm's way, Oriné and Yarna rushed to the place where they had fallen and quickly gathered up their weapons. Distributing the extras among his fellows, Oriné held on to one of the swords: it was in better condition than his was which could be important soon. He turned his attention back to the battle and saw that no one else had sustained serious injury, but no headway had been made and the Yorahiié were demolishing the encampment.

"Yarna!" he called out, causing his friend to look his way. "Get that one's attention!" Nodding, the older Sangheili took off at a sprint, holding his spear before him and yelling a challenge. One Yorahii saw his charge and began its own; the warrior-in-training quickly began to backpedal, first allowing the beast to catch up and then matching its speed and swiping at it with his spear. As the two combatants ran past, Oriné brandished both swords and reached out with one of the blades. The slight hook grabbed hold of a small outcropping in its rocky skin and the young Sangheili quickly found himself being pulled through the sand. With great effort he pulled himself up against the hide and began climbing using the swords. As he finally reached the top, he pulled both swords free and began feeling along the ridge on its back.

Yorahii beasts, for whatever reason, always slept with their right side facing the desert wind. Whenever it blew in another direction they would unconsciously move themselves so the proper side was facing it. As a result, a lopsided ridge grew on their backs: the right side was heavily armored while the left side protected a long stripe of vulnerable, unarmored skin along the spine.

_No one has ever attempted this before, _Oriné reminded himself. Finally his thin fingers found a weak spot on the ridge. With a mighty tug he hefted the flap up, exposing the orange flesh beneath. Suddenly aware of what the creature on its back was doing, the Yorahii ceased its pursuit of Yarna and immediately began to flail about wildly. Oriné quickly dug the blade in as far as he could make it go; the sensation of muscles tearing and bones cracking were conducted up the weapon and into the warrior-in-training's hand. The beast stumbled and crashed down, all feeling lost in its hindquarters. Seeing their opportunity, several other Sangheili scrambled up its back and began to attack it. It let out a mighty yet piteous groan, finally collapsing as a blade severed its spine at the neck. It would lie there for a while more, its breathing slowing more and more until it finally died of its wounds.

Oriné stood and looked back at the other Yorahii, where he saw several of his peers succeeding at the same tactic. A smile crossed his mandibles: seeing his friends use his own creation brought a great feeling of happiness over him. Finally, as the second beast fell, the crowd of Sangheili let loose a mighty victory cry. Dismounting from their prey, they quickly formed a circle, uttered a quick prayer, and then set about dismantling the carcasses and setting aside what could be used for food and what could be used to rebuild and repair the structures.

That night, Oriné had the honor of sleeping closest to the bonfire, under the open desert sky with the taste of Yorahii and water still fresh in his mind. He was a hero.

* * *

_The night was full of sound, a huge change from the established norm. Four months had elapsed, the marooned Sangheili believed, and they had settled into a routine. Hunting parties every other day, constant camp maintenance and night guard shifts, and the proper storage of leftover food and water. Too often their camp had been infiltrated by small or medium predators looking for an easy meal, either of the conquered sustenance or the sleeping warriors-to-be._

_At the same time, the Sangheili had grown used to living on the planet. They knew what to expect most of the time now, and from here on out they expected it to be an exercise in maintaining normalcy. Some exceptions still plagued them: their leader had died earlier in the week from dehydration. Everyone agreed that it had been his own fault for not keeping up his water intake, but the thought still shook them. To die so dishonorably was heresy, one that would affect your family._

_Tonight the wind howled and harsh waves of sand blew through their camp. The small grains smashed and pounded against the hides that made up the walls and ceiling, keeping the occupants awake. Oriné was in a tent with Rtas, Olah, and the Councilor's son, Yarna; the fifth occupant was currently on the night guard shift and would undoubtedly be suffering outside in the storm. They considered recalling the guards to the safety of the tents, but Olah, who had seemed to take the mantle of leader, reminded them that the armored Yorahii were not hindered by sandstorms and could ravage the camp if they were not careful._

_Unable to sleep, idle conversation drifted up from each Sangheili, attempting either to make small talk or bore the others into slumber. So far the latter had proved unattainable._

_Rtas shifted on his rolled-out hide. "Where is home for you all?"_

_Oriné scratched idly at a mandible, eyes riveted to the ceiling. "Lomak district of Sanghelios's capital." Fond memories sprang to mind of his home, ones that made him pine for his own bed and a pleasant meal._

_From across the tent, Rtas rolled to look at his companion. "Really? As am I!"_

"_I am not far," Yarna said dimly. "Sorlal district, among the manors."_

_Oriné smirked. "Of course you are," he droned, "for you are the son of a Councilor." Yarna growled, reached over, and gave his friend a punch in the arm; he hated being referred to as such. He had fought hard in the first few weeks to show that he was as simple and humble a Sangheili as any of them._

"_What of your family, Oriné?" Rtas had apparently taken an interest. "What are they like?"_

"_My father used to be a Ship Commander before he retired and bonded with my mother," Oriné said, resting his hands on his stomach. "He is a fierce warrior, large and strong. He taught me everything I know. My mother is very kind and gentle in her ways, but she can be just as powerful and intimidating as my father when she speaks. Father always tells her that she has a dancer's body but a warrior's tongue."_

_Oriné smiled warmly. "But I miss my sister most of all. We are twins."_

_Rtas perked up. "You have a twin? A _female _twin? That is rare."_

_The other Sangheili narrowed his eyes and flicked a mandible at his companion. "Not as rare as green eyes among Sangheili," he retorted._

"_Ordinarily I would be delighted to meet any of my Brothers' beautiful sisters," Yarna said from his place, "but if she is your twin, as you say, I fear her hideousness shall make my eyes melt—OW!" Oriné had reached over and punched him in the arm far harder than Yarna had done a moment ago._

_Rtas chuckled low, then cast his unusual eyes over to Olah, who was sprawled on his side. "What of you, Olah? Where is home? What is your family like?"_

_Already the camp understood that Olah was a very tight-lipped, no-nonsense individual, so none of the tent's occupants were surprised when Olah only responded with a grunt. He never spoke of his family, his home, and his friends if he had any; the only thing he concerned himself with was maintaining the camp._

_The three other Sangheili turned the conversation to Sanghelios and what awaited them when they returned. Eventually they all drifted off to sleep, Oriné last of all. He fell into deep slumber and dreamed of when he would see his sister again._

* * *

The next day, as a hunting party was preparing to disembark, an unfamiliar hum filled the air. At first the camp fell back to its center and adopted a defensive formation, spears outstretched and all backs toward the middle of the campground where the fire still burned weakly. Confusion crossed their minds and was easily read on their faces: was this perhaps a new creature? Obviously it was coming from the air, so it must be some kind of flying predator, attracted by the smell of carrion and the thought of a meal.

Quickly, though, they spotted the distinctive, unmistakable shapes of Spirit dropships coming over the far-off mountains. They let out a collective celebratory cheer and rapidly set about preparing themselves for their long-awaited extraction. The three wounded Sangheili were brought out of their tent and laid out in the open where they could observe the incoming craft; the remaining twenty-five warriors-in-training began to take apart the tents and organize the food and resources they had used. It was tradition that all traces of their habitation was removed and erased, so the next batch of Sangheili in this sector would have to build from scratch and fend for themselves, like this one had.

When the four fork-shaped craft touched down, the trainees were lined up in orderly rows, the camp in pieces and stacked neatly nearby along with all the extra food. Olah 'Seroum stood at the front, tall and muscular, and waited for the troop hatches to drop. When they did, a blue-armored Sangheili soldier stepped out and looked over their ranks. He nodded briefly in approval of their accomplishments, and withdrew a hand-held Lumidex with a simple list of names on it. It was time for roll call.

The warrior went down the list, noting those who had died and why. Only two had perished, one honorably: the family of the one who died fighting a predator would be notified of their son's death, and while the other fallen Sangheili's parents would be told of their child's demise they would also be forbidden from bearing any other children until their remaining offspring (if they had any) could restore honor to their Lineage.

After the last of the names were called, the full-grown Sangheili looked back up over the crowd. "Well done, young ones," he called out. "You have survived the greatest trial and are now Elites of the Covenant. Get aboard a dropship and prepare for departure: your parents will be honored to reacquaint themselves with you." This time there was no cheer or audible elation; the newly-christened Elites somberly shuffled onto the transports. The true weight of what they had gone through was suddenly apparent to them, yet the burden was now gone from their shoulders. They had succeeded; so many other camps throughout history had lost all thirty warriors-in-training, yet they had survived and only lost two of their own. But they did not feel honor; they instead felt fatigued.

During the return to space, many of the Sangheili fell asleep. Oriné's troop slot was right next to one of his more seriously wounded comrades, who died in his sleep that very same journey. Because it was from injuries sustained in combat it was considered honorable and no shame fell to his Lineage; Irut 'Yonom's name was forever secured in Covenant history as a valiant warrior.


	2. Welcome to the Covenant

Chapter 2: Welcome to the Covenant

A little over a year ago, he had watched thirty Sangheili children board a handful of Spirits and take off into the sky. They had worn only their Honored Lineage robes and carried their families' hopes and dreams with them, and on that day his youngest son had left to undertake the single most important trial known to his kind. Now he had to keep his emotions in check as he watched from the Birth-Givers' balcony as another handful of Spirits set down and deposited twenty-seven children—

_No, _Orita 'Fulsamee corrected himself, _twenty-seven Covenant Elites. _The survivors of the trial arranged themselves into orderly rows, emerald-colored armor glistening in the white light of Sanghelios's star. From his place on the balcony, milling about with the other concerned and anxious parents, he tried to distinguish his son from the crowd, but the balcony was shamefully distant from the newly returned warriors. He did his best to hide his anxiousness, but despite all his attempts his mate put her slender hand on his shoulder in a motion of understanding.

"Orita," Alsa cooed, "Relax, my love. He is home now, and we know it: we didn't receive one of those horrible communiqués like the 'Yonomee did."

Orita's shoulders sagged in exasperation, but he did not dare lower his head for fear of missing sight of his son. "Dama and Alna have another son; Irut was only their middle-child. Oriné is our last."

"You worry far too much," his mate chided him, smiling wryly. "Were it not for your injury, I would think that you had never fought a single battle in your entire life." Orita could not help but chuckle, albeit dryly, at his mate's often-used taunt. It was true that fatherhood had changed him from a battle-hardened veteran to what many had called a soft-hearted individual, but he knew what he was doing was right: the Lineage was all the strength he would need. His two sons would bring it honor, and his daughter would bring it more children. His time spent in the military was valuable and educational, but it paled in comparison to the importance of family.

His thoughts quickly returned to the present as the blare of a horn tore through the air. All the parents and family members present immediately stood ram-rod straight, their excited eyes sweeping over the plaza beneath them: their sons stood below them at rapt attention as a crimson-armored Major strode back and forth in front of them, bellowing a quick speech in a loud voice that was unintelligible to the spectators, being just far enough out of earshot. Finally he stopped in front of young Olah 'Seroum and nodded. The young warrior spun around on his heel and barked several quick orders at the other twenty-six Sangheili, and then dropped his shoulders and smiled. With a sweeping motion of his arm he dismissed his troops, and quickly they all broke rank and ran laughing and whooping towards their parents, who likewise descended the ancient steps as quickly as they could to join with their children.

Families were reunited at last. Between the crying mothers, the proud fathers, and the happy children there arose such a din that all other Sangheili not involved in the reunion covered their ears their ears and hurried away from the plaza.

Alsa and Orita pushed through the crowd, intent on finding their son. Fortunately he had removed his helmet, thereby making it all the easier for his mother to find him and sweep him up into her arms, laughing and crying at the same time. The elder Sangheili looked on with a smile so large that he had only felt it once before, when his eldest son, Oriné's older brother, had returned home in just as much splendor.

After a moment, young Oriné broke from his mother and went next to his father. They touched foreheads, an ancient sign of brotherhood, before embracing each other. "My son!" he cried, "You have done it! You have become an Elite, the greatest and noblest of all soldiers!" He hefted the young warrior onto his shoulder; he weighed considerably more than usual in his armor, but Orita hardly noticed, the joy in his mind was too overpowering.

"Father, please!" Oriné protested, but his parent would have none of it. The young Sangheili blushed hard, but realized that his comrades were themselves too caught up in their own reunions in order to take the time to make fun of him. So he let his father have his moment, and then slipped out of his grip. Compared to his father, Oriné was a very thin and lanky creature, but then again that applied for a great deal of the Sangheili when compared to Orita 'Fulsamee. He was a massive man, rock-hard muscles perfectly toned that could easily tear through a human or Sangheili; at the moment he wore a loose and dark-colored garment that displayed intricate designs indicative of his current, if suspended, rank: Ship Commander.

Orita immediately began pressing his son for the story of his trial, but Alsa wouldn't stand to hear the details. She wanted to get her boy home quickly in order to feed him a decent home-cooked meal and get him into more comfortable clothes. At first the two males protested but she affixed them with such a look to cause them to immediately submit. She led her two subdued men through the streets, much to the entertainment of the other nearby Sangheili.

The city of Lomak was only a part of the capital city of Sanghelios, one of eleven districts that made up the entire capital. It tended to be more of a tourist attraction, with many members of the Covenant venturing to it to enjoy the quaint scenery and exposure to Sangheili history: grand holographic murals could be found scattered throughout the city, each depicting an important scene or grand battle from history. The most popular were the ones that showed artistic renditions of the War of Fortune, the conflict with the Prophets that eventually led both sides to uncover the secrets of the Forerunner. However, this acceptance of outsiders applied only to the city at large; certain areas of Lomak were off-limits to other races, aside from servant Unggoy, and it was in such an area that the 'Fulsam Lineage lived.

Aside from two large causeways Lomak was restricted to travel by foot, so the three Sangheili found themselves walking through the city on the way to their flat. Oriné took in the surroundings with silent beatitude: he was an adult now, by definition, but it still filled his heart with joy to be back in his home. They passed a great deal of acquaintances on their way, and stopped to greet each one and reintroduce the young 'Fulsam, now a full-fledged Elite of the Covenant.

"When will you depart for Institution?" one female asked.

"Soon," Oriné assured her, "very soon. We are allowed two weeks of leave before we are expected to be prepared for more and greater training."

After the stranger had departed, Orita put his hand on his son's shoulder. "Do not fear Institution, my son. It will be trying, but you have overcome the greatest hurdle already. You will meet new friends and gain new allies."

The young Sangheili only half-heartedly listened; Institution was still two weeks away, and Jisako was still fresh in his mind. He was more content to take in the surroundings and marvel at how much things had changed since he left, even relax and unwind among the familiarity. There was much to admire, especially in the light of having just returned from such a harsh world. There were no predators here, no fear of the nights or of never waking up from slumber: water was plentiful as large decorative fountains dotted the streets, and green ferns and ivy stalks grew up the sides of buildings. This was truly Paradise.

"When is the Ceremony of Appellation to be?" His mother's question cut through his idle thoughts and drew him back to reality. The Ceremony was to be his official induction into the Covenant, his and his comrades'. They would receive their military names, and, though Oriné was careful not to admit his anticipation, they would be able to legally partake of the fine wine and brandy available to the Sangheili. He looked forward to drinking with his friends and even, if an opportunity arose, to play a classic drinking game with his father. They would use _real _wine this time, not uapa-flavored juice.

"Tonight, at the Grand Plaza beside the bay," Oriné replied, nodding hello to a passing stranger. His mother squawked in surprise and began urging the two males to hurry; she had evidently not been aware that the ceremony was to take place so soon and wanted her boys fed well and dressed. Thus the two military Sangheili were grabbed by the shoulders and literally dragged through the streets by a single housewife.

* * *

"But mother!" Yarna 'Orgalm protested as his birth giver ordered the Unggoy servants to collect cloth from the storeroom in the sub-levels of the manor, "I'm only to wear my armor. No other clothing is permitted!"

"Incorrect!" the proud Sangheili woman, a tall and toned female named Oslu Gal, cried out, wrapping a swath of brightly-colored fabric around her son's neck and scrutinizing it. "You are not permitted to wear anything other than your armor for the actual ceremony, but there is nothing to be said against a civilized outfit for the banquet prior."

The young Sangheili huffed, ripping the scarf from his neck and crossing his arms. "I will not be dressed up as a doll!"

In response the elder woman cuffed him smartly upside the head, forcing him to take a step back and drop the cloth as he reached up to nurse the mark. "You will do as you're told! You _will _look like a gentile, you _will _bring honor to your Lineage, and _you will like it!_" Utterly defeated, Yarna stood still and accepted the treatment, not willing to encourage the wrath of his mother. Female though she was, she had the heart of a warrior. She had, in fact, been kicked out of the Priestesses' Coven because she tried to resolve all her problems through violence. She had very nearly beaten the High Priestess to death immediately following her removal, but that was also how she had met her mate: Rakola 'Orgalmee had been the only Honor Guard present strong enough to subdue her. She fell in love with him immediately.

Yarna gazed into the mirror nearby that presented his flat reflection and sighed softly, not loud enough for Oslu to hear. He did not share either his mother or father's pride in his Lineage; certainly he felt compelled to bring more honor to it, but his father was already a very righteous and popular man. Why could he not simply live the life of a soldier? Why did he have to excel, to one day "outgrow" it and join the council?

Suddenly the reflection caught another Sangheili, and the young emerald-armor soldier turned around suddenly. There, standing in the doorway, was a tall and strong man, wearing bright silver armor and the finest cloak any had yet seen. In the hall beyond Yarna could see two armored Honor Guards, one holding a large and ornate headpiece for his charge. It was the silver armored one, however, who the child's interest was focused on.

"By the Forerunner," Rakola 'Orgalmae breathed, "look at what that planet has done to my son! He is taller and stronger, surely smarter... this is a blessing that I will surely be thankful for come the Night of the Beholden." The praise was heard by the young Sangheili but it did not register. It had been so long since Yarna had seen his father, especially in so revenant a mood. Ever since he was young, he had never been able to win his father's attention for anything but the most pressing matters. He understood his position on the Council didn't lend itself to much free time, but there was still a degree of familiarity that he saw among other families that he yearned for.

"Father," Yarna whispered, unable to form a proper greeting. Fear filled him, remembering the pain of what happened last time he failed to deliver the necessary honorifics, but he was unprepared for what happened next.

The silver-armored councilor strode into the room and touched foreheads with his boy. "I am so sorry that I was unable to see you land, Yarna. The council was in session, and I nearly had to fight my way out of the chambers to get here now." Yarna remained silent: such attention from his father was one of the things that he always wished for but was rare in receiving. The former Battalion Master had always pushed his son to be the best and believed that to levy a good thought that had not been earned by right of blood was tantamount to heresy. But now that Yarna had survived Jisako perhaps he truly deserved one, if not several.

Regardless this sudden turn-about had thrown the young cadet off-balance, and even when he recovered all he could do was smile, nod, and mutter some sort of thankful remark. Rakola nodded and glanced at his mate.

"_You _are the one dressing him, I presume?"

She huffed and nodded, waving to the Unggoy servants she had dispatched for the exotic fabrics as they tried to squeeze past the two Honor Guards blocking the hallway. "Fit for a Councilor," she smirked and retrieved a bolt of cloth from the arms of her waiting slaves. "A similar pattern to what you wear to your political banquets should be dashing, though I'll tone it down a bit: your son has not _yet _outranked you."

He nodded in response, eyes having glazed over halfway through her explanation. "Very good, my love," he said, turning to leave. "I must prepare myself as well. I will see you both when we are ready to depart."

* * *

Any shreds of comportment Oriné still clung to by the time they reached their cozy flat vanished as soon as he saw his twin sister Fulsa. He bellowed the playful challenge of their childhood and flung himself at her. Hearing it but not believing her ears she looked up and squawked in surprise as he hefted her up in an embrace. She giggled and returned the hug, touching foreheads with him.

"Oriné!" she squealed when he let her go. "You've finally returned! And look at your armor!" She was different, holding herself straighter and with more confidence. Though it was obvious that she had grown up, perhaps not so much as himself, she was still his sister under all the blossoming womanhood.

"The Coven has changed you," he mused, "but I'll bet you're still ticklish!" She yelped as he reached out and tried to get his nimble hands under her arms, where he remembered her to be most vulnerable. This continued for a while until finally she called for quarter, and he gave it with a snide remark. In return she sneered and flicked a mandible at him, though all in jest.

"So," Oriné said, having collapsed onto the daybed by the window and removed his helmet, "tell me of the Coven."

Fulsa groaned as she fell onto a cushion, being careful to tuck her robes under her legs as she did so. "It is awful. Long work days, little rest, and constantly memorizing scripture. And few of the other girls are ever willing to go out and have some _fun!_ You would think that giving your mind a chance to breathe was a heresy, the way they remain cooped up in the temples."

"Surely the fact that it is on High Charity offers you some entertainment?"

She snorted at this. "Hardly. Don't misunderstand, the Holy City is a beautiful and inspiring place, but we are not yet permitted to venture very far beyond the temple district. Should we stray and are caught, the punishment is severe."

Oriné hummed. "Not _so _severe."

She shrugged. "The food is terrible as well. Everything is so dry that it tastes like sand! Nothing could be more miserable than that." Hearing this, her twin brother burst out laughing, and Fulsa cringed at her own faux-pas. She quickly added, "I keep forgetting where you were. Then again, I was hardly present for father's rants about Jisako and how he believed you were doing. I did receive communiqués from him regularly though, and mother too."

"They were all right?"

"No, they feared for you with all their hearts. But now," she said, reaching out her hoof and kicking his armored shin, "we can plainly see their concern was for naught."

"I came close often enough," he said, slipping his own foot under her cushion in an attempt to upend it. "Remind me to tell you of the hunting. Oh, and the Yorahii. I believe you'll find enough substance to those tales to gossip to all your friends." She pounced on him then, attempting to tackle him from the daybed and wrestle like they had before their separation.

As the two began their horseplay like they had never parted and like one wasn't wearing armor and the other priestess robes, their parents watched from the other side of the main room, caught up in the happiness. Fulsa had long been removed from the household, being many light-years away for her training. Soon she would be officially considered a vestar and would learn the ways of a holy woman. There was little doubt in either of her parents' minds whether or not she could become that which she wanted. But that was in the future, still a distance away. For now, they could revel in their happiness.

"Our family is whole again," Orita beamed, but when he looked to Alsa he saw tears in her eyes. "What's wrong, love?"

She stifled a sob before replying. "It's... they're so grown up now," she said, watching them through eyes smeared with moisture. "In two weeks Oriné will be gone again, this time for quite a while, and only a month after that we'll lose Fulsa too." She grabbed a handful of her mate's garment and buried her face in it; all he could do was wrap his arms around her, lead her out of the room, and whisper quiet reassurances in her ear. The siblings remained oblivious, too busied with catching up to notice the suffering of their mother.

* * *

As the day waned the members of the 'Fulsam Lineage prepared to go to the ceremony. Alsa had since calmed down to the point of once again being jovial and dressed herself in her finest tunic and stola combination, with a palla wrapped around her shoulders. Orita and Oriné wore their armor, the former clad in the gold of his command post and the latter in the emerald of the Elite Juniors. Fulsa, having only recently been tutored by the Coven, wore her inductee robes of dark red. After her time as a vestar, when she become a Priestess of the First Circle, she would have gold trimmings sewn into it, but until that day she showed her humility through blandness. Despite the implied low ranking, the tones suited her well.

The sun had only recently set when they departed, but when they reached the Grand Plaza beside the bay Lomak was being bathed in the silvery green light of Qikost, one of Sanghelios's moons. The water beyond sparkled, the waves rising and falling glittered with each swell and roared with each break upon the rocky shore. Artificial lights cast their illumination well beyond the borders of the open-air forum and the voices and laughter of the occupants carried far into the night. Oriné, upon spotting three of his comrades, rushed over to say hello while his family found themselves an acceptable table at which to sit. As the night continued and the guests were served, the young 'Fulsam brought many of his comrades past for them to meet and exchange the required pleasantries. His father often asked them of the challenges they faced and how they overcame them, occasionally interjecting with his own tales of his survival.

The entire crowd, however, stopped at the arrival of the 'Orgalm Lineage. The three members were dressed in fine clothes, a formal robe for Oslu and senatorial capes for the men, and they were flanked by six Honor Guards. The crowd parted as they made their way to a specially reserved table, conversation returning to normal after a short pause to admire the miniature procession.

Oriné was unfazed by his friend's entrance and rushed over, embracing and touching foreheads with his closest Brother. "Come," he said anxiously, speaking to all three, "you must meet my family!"

Alsa and Orita bowed low as they leaped to their feet. "My lord," the 'Fulsam matriarch said with great awe, "we were unaware that the son of a High Councilor had undergone the same trial as ours. We would have taught him the proper respect had we known."

"I am Orita 'Fulsamee, Excellency," Oriné's father said, introducing them, "and this is my mate, Alsa Sam, and my daughter, Fulsa."

Yarna blushed; he had once confided in Oriné that he did not like the way people treated his family and did not look for the same amount of respect as they did. The younger Sangheili had since treated him as any other, even in front of his parents.

Rakola, however, did not seem fazed by the praise. "Orita..." he wondered aloud, clicking his mandibles in thought. "That is a merchant's name, is it not? Odd that a Ship Commander would bear such a humble name. And your son, Oriné, he has such a name too." There was no emotion in his voice, not even scorn. "Have you not pride in your Lineage?"

Openly shocked, Oriné watched as his father struggled to control his internal rage. Despite the pressure to do something dishonorable, perhaps foolish, the aging 'Fulsamee managed to repress his anger and sound out a reserved departure. "Thank you for your attention, Excellency," he said through tight mandibles, "but my family is overcome with hunger, as is yours, I'm certain. Perhaps we may speak another time." Rakola lingered for a bit, but soon nodded his farewell and departed.

Yarna, however, remained with the 'Fulsamee Lineage to talk. "I apologize for my father," he said, tugging uncomfortably at the cape his mother had given him. "He is not one who is adept at conversing with others."

"It makes him well-suited for the realm of politics," Orita muttered dryly.

"Come, friend," Oriné said, taking hold of Yarna's shoulder and guiding him away, "we should meet and speak with the others while we still have time before the ceremony."

Together they went from table to table, locating those who had been in their camp and greeting them; they would also, from time to time, find conversation amongst strangers who had been in other sectors. Between them they often found common experiences and either laughed or nodded solemnly about them. When they found Rtas, their group was complete and they sat at a table with some others of the same camp.

Light appetizers were served, but as it were the main courses wouldn't be served until the ceremony was finished. Flagons were distributed, but no wine was given yet. Only uapa juice was offered, but the soon-to-be warriors waved off the Kig-Yar servants and glumly stared at their empty cups.

Eventually they were summoned to the pulpit by an Elite Minor who was weaving through the crowd and alerting all of the cadets. They fell into position in front of the raised platform, and the Minor bellowed for quiet. All eyes turned to them. Standing to one side was Olah 'Seroum, to the other another cobalt-armored Elite Minor carrying several bundles, and on the raised platform itself was Fleet Master Lyos 'Vadumee. As the crowd caught sight of him they fell into a respectful silence. 'Vadumee was a war hero from the subjugation of the Jiralhanae into the Covenant, having been the one to spearhead the push to their home world. Rakola 'Orgalmae had been a Field Commander then and helped coordinate the ground attack.

"Lords and ladies," 'Vadumee began, "your sons have, for the past year, endured the harshest and most brutal experience of their lives. The desert world of Jisako has long been the single greatest test of a warrior's capabilities, forcing them to cooperate in the face of death and dishonor, teaching them through action the proper combat techniques and survival skills necessary for them to become Elites of the Covenant. Your sons undertook this challenge, and they overcame it.

"In our culture," the Fleet Master continued, "there is no more sacred a thing than a name. Only those who have proven themselves worthy by reaching adulthood are given their clan name, and tonight we have come to give to these brave souls the Military Appellation." He paused and smiled, his features softening. "My son is among these Sangheili and nothing has filled me with more pride since I learned of his success, so pardon me if I become emotional.

"Now, Olah 'Seroum shall present the proper trophies." Lyos 'Vadumee relinquished the pulpit to the young Sangheili, who stepped up alongside the Elite Minor holding several boxes and attending many more stacked up nearby. Olah began calling forth his comrades, giving them each a box and proclaiming their full names.

Third to be called was Yarna. "Yarna 'Orgalm!" his voice bellowed, and the Sangheili in question stepped up to Olah. "For your display of skill, bravery, and honor, you are to be given these as a prize and indicator of your new name, Yarna 'Orgalmee." Yarna bowed, accepted the box, and retreated back to his former place in line.

Next came Oriné. As he stepped up, Olah turned to the Minor and nodded. The Elite retrieved a specially decorated rectangular container that appeared to be carved from the sacred wood of a halli tree. "For your leadership in times of crisis and level-headedness when others would have panicked," Olah declared, "you are to be given these as a prize and indicator of your new name, Oriné 'Fulsamee." The young Sangheili bowed and awaited his box. "Your skills with a blade have not gone unnoticed by your comrades," Olah whispered to him as he handed it over, "and we have mentioned it to the Fleet Master. He gives you these; don't let your skills wane." Barely able to contain his curiosity long enough to find his place in the line, Oriné cracked the lid of the box slightly to peek and had to fight the urge to gasp at what lay inside.

Two silver nadier, ancient dueling rods of the Sangheili, were encased within. Intricate designs were carved down their lengths and caught some of the lamplight that sneaked through the open lid. In ancient times the nadier had been the premier way to settle honorable duels between Sangheili as they were non-lethal but required great skill to wield, because they had gravity manipulation devices inside the haft that could make them incredibly heavy. Nowadays there were energy swords that were even more difficult to lift, thus a better way at displaying skill, but a few nadier sets still existed. Now he was in possession of one.

The rest of the ceremony was a blur, the only thing catching his attention being when the Rtas, the Fleet Master's son, accepted his Appellation gift. Finally, at the end of the ceremony, Lyos 'Vadumee once again took to the pulpit and awarded Olah his new name, Olah 'Seroumee.

"The ceremony is complete," 'Vadumee declared, and then relaxed. Joviality returned to his tone. "Now eat, drink, and be merry; in two weeks, these young warriors will depart to complete their training and join their Brothers on the front lines in our Holy Crusade against the humans. You will have to say goodbye, but do not fear, for it will not be long before we begin our Great Journey and we shall be reunited as immortals.

"Welcome to the Covenant."


	3. Time Among Friends

Chapter 3: Time among Friends

Oriné cracked a bleary eye to the morning light and immediately groaned and rolled over, trying to shield himself from the brightness. His tear ducts dilated, however, and flooded the miniscule crack between his eyelids with water, dissolving the natural adhesive that held them together. Five minutes later, despite all his effort, he could not keep them closed and reluctantly allowed himself to wake up.

Rising carefully from his bed so as not to move his head too much, he gingerly swung his legs out from under the silken sheets and touched his hooves to the stone floor. Only the slightest hints of cold penetrated the calluses on his soles, perhaps one of the few advantages that living on a desert planet for a year provided. Waking up was never easy, though, especially from a first-time rest in such a comfortable bed after such a long time.

He shook his head automatically to try and dispel the cobwebs, but realized his mistake when a white-hot lance of pain ripped through his skull. His hands flew immediately to his temple and squeezed, praying that the pressure would relieve his suffering. _In retrospect, _he chastised himself, _just because I am now allowed to drink should not have meant that I should drink in excess. _Visions of crystal glasses filled with opaque Sangheili whiskey crossed his mind and he banished them away with all due haste, the mere thought making him sick. The light pouring into his room did little to ease his discomfort, so he stood on uneasy legs and hobbled over to the window. With a swift tug he drew the curtains closed... but it turned out to be far too hard of a pull, instead yanking the swathes of cloth from their position and exposing him to even more sunlight.

For a full minute he squinted at the material in a mixture of anger and helplessness before finally dropping one of the swathes and wrapping the other around his naked waist as a casual sarong. He gazed for a moment outside; a cool breeze blew through the portal and he could see the streets below where children laughed and ran about, their parents struggling to regain control of them. From the height of the sun he determined it to be roughly midday. His mental faculties were finally returning to him and he turned from the window, exiting his room.

The young Sangheili followed the hall out into the main room of their flat, where his father and sister were kneeling before the low-set family table, so entranced in a duel of wits in the form of a game that they didn't notice his entrance. Someone else, however, did.

"Oriné!" His mother was behind him, arms crossed and a half-amused, half-irritated look on her face. "Have we decided that our draperies are far more comfortable than our actual clothes, or has that planet deprived you of such civilization that you have forgotten?" The younger male winced; the tone of his mother's voice displayed her annoyance, something he wished to avoid, and its tenor bore into his brain. It so disoriented him that he was too slow in replying for her tastes. "What? Shall you only respond to your full name now, Oriné 'Fulsamee?" she asked, her glare becoming harder.

"Sorry, mother," Oriné said. It was all he could come up with; he was not yet at a level of capability as to explain himself. He was unsure whether this was actually a hangover or if he was still drunk.

Alsa smiled, her look softening considerably. "It is of no consequence; I meant to change the curtains in your room but never did get around to it. Come," she said, motioning him into the kitchen, "have something to eat."

"It won't stay down," he warned but entered the room anyway. It was small, having only counter tops inlaid with cooking technology and enough room for a smaller version of the table in the main room. He settled himself on his knees and Alsa waved to an open doorway.

"Sasat!" she called. "Come out of there for a moment and attend to my son!"

Almost immediately a stocky creature emerged from the storeroom. She had a cylindrical tank attached to her back and a hose that ran along her neck to a breather on her face; Oriné easily recognized his family's Unggoy slave maid.

The diminutive creature bowed quickly. "I shall do so, my lady," she said, "but you should probably hurry to your mate's side and assist him; I fear that Fulsa is again beating him at Rocnas'al." Alsa nodded and strode out of the room, muttering something about how her daughter should have been a warrior as well.

Next Sasat turned her attention to the young Sangheili. "My lord, it's good to see you again," she said, with what he thought was a smile; the breather covered her mouth quite well. Though she had been their slave maid for longer than he had been alive, after a year away she seemed almost completely alien to him. He had much to adjust to now, and because he was technically now a soldier, that included being addressed as "lord" by the lower castes. "What do you hunger for?"

He smiled in return. "I do not know, Sasat," he admitted, "I'm a bit hung-over this morning and I'm afraid anything too substantial will not rest well."

Nodding, she turned to consult the cabinets. "I believe I can come up with something," she said, and began rummaging. Her stubby arms didn't have a great reach, nor did her height offer her access to the higher cabinets, but the lower ones were fully stocked. As she searched, she hummed for a moment before speaking up again, "How was Jisako?"

For a moment Oriné shuddered. "It was very difficult," he said, "but I survived."

"And you are a stronger Sangheili for it," she replied, not glancing away from her searching. "How well did you eat there?"

"Only meat from animals that we could catch," he said, his thoughts returning to the familiar world, "and occasionally that which we could skin off a predator we killed."

"What did you do about water?"

"The only water that came was from the rain, and storms were few and far between. It had a taint of acid and we had to give it time in the sun before we could drink it; otherwise we would burn our throats." She hummed an affirmative, and he gave her a questioning look. "Most people who have not been there are horrified by these stories."

She looked over at him and smiled again. "The Unggoy home world is a frigid land with naturally occurring pillars of fire. Now I live on such a hot world that even the rain feels too warm. I'm no stranger to dangerous climates." With that she went back to her work, leaving Oriné thinking.

Finally she appeared to have found what she needed and withdrew from the depths of the cupboard. Using some of the water from the stores and a bowl she mixed the ingredients together. "This is a good soup," she told him as she worked, "one that will ease into your stomach." It needed to be heated; now she faced the challenge of reaching the warming plate. Oriné rose from his position.

"Let me help," he offered, and took the bowl and set it on the hot surface.

"Thank you, my lord, but you didn't need to help me," Sasat said, bowing.

Oriné waved, still uncomfortable at the terminology. "It was no trouble," he said, "and can you please return to calling me by my first name, like before I left?"

She cocked her head in puzzlement. "Honorifics make you uneasy?"

"Yes, I don't like them," he replied. "They sound hollow. I don't feel that I've earned them." She merely shrugged and instructed him to remove the soup when it was time to do so. He took the soup back to the table, knelt, recited his prayer, and began to drink.

A frightful yelling interrupted him when two-thirds of the bowl was emptied. He leaped from his sitting position and ran into the main room from which the sound originated. There, his father was standing and appearing to dance while his mother stood nearby smiling and his sister kneeled dejectedly at the table.

"No fair!" she pouted to her mother. "I had him before you helped him!"

"It's not nice to pick on your father," Alsa grinned, "and besides, letting him win once in a while isn't a bad choice." The younger female merely huffed and crossed her arms; Oriné chuckled and walked over.

"Good morning, dearest sister," he said half-teasingly. "Hopefully your loss will not spoil the day for you."

She smiled at him when he approached, but her mandibles twitched in confusion. "What do you mean?"

"I'm finally returned from a year-long period on a desert world!" Oriné explained. "I'm going to go all over the city today with Yarna, and I want you to come along. You've been here this whole time, so I am relying on you to show me what's changed." She quickly agreed and scampered off to get ready.

His father came up behind him. "By the by, son," he said, "sometime in the next couple of weeks I hope to open a communication with your brother so that he may congratulate you on your successful survival."

Oriné nodded. "It would be nice to hear from Orna again."

"Indeed it would," Orita agreed. The Lineage had heard nothing from their oldest child in a long time. He had climbed the ranks of the Covenant quickly, from his very first ground battle which displayed his amazing prowess and strategy. He had moved to commanding a squad, and then jumped to commanding a ship. His current rank matched that of his father's and was expected to soar beyond; the Sangheili prided themselves on having their children excel them.

Fulsa returned and, with their parents' blessing, left to go deeper into the city. Lomak loomed all around them, its majesty still flooring Oriné despite his chance to gaze upon it yesterday. People milled all about, talking and laughing; it felt so different now to be surrounded by people of his own race, ones that were not hardened or scarred by desert winds and vicious predators. They passed close to one of the burbling fountains he had seen on his way back from the dropship and he reared his head back in shock before remembering that water was plentiful.

_I have truly been absent, _he lamented. His sister pointed out several places that had changed since his departure, including the disappointing fact that one of his favorite sweets shops had closed itself. Apparently the owner's mate had died and he took his own life, following the honorable tradition of the Sangheili. Still, it was too bad: he had delighted in the Kig-Yar confections the shop owner had carried and was certain he would never find a higher quality outlet.

"So where are we going?" Fulsa asked him. She had been showcasing the sights but her brother was leading the expedition.

"The manor district," he said casually. "We shall find Yarna there."

"Oh, right," she said, "he's that Councilor's son you brought past our table last night." She paused as a thought occurred to her. "You're going to knock on the front door of a Councilor's house... dressed like _that?_"

He glanced down, remembering his fiasco with the curtains. "Yes," he stated plainly. Fulsa shook her head and the pair kept walking. The manor district was technically a part of Sorlal, the neighboring city, but it shared its border with Lomak so travel there was easy. When they arrived, the twins were briefly overwhelmed by the grandiose nature of the place. Sacred halli trees divided the causeway leading into the district, casting a comfortable shade over the few pedestrians. Small basins filled with water surrounded the roots, more for the use of dehydrated Sangheili than for the trees themselves that collected their moisture from the frequent rainstorms. The manors were generally three stories high with flat roofs and repellent energy domes on the top for said rain, though there were a few that were different. However, they all paled in comparison to the 'Orgalm Manor at the end of the roadway.

A long and straight paved walkway led right up to the front door, but on either side were open lawns and towering trees. Sangheili here and there stretched out on the grass beneath them, either soaking in the sun or resting in the shade. _Apparently the 'Orgalm Lineage has no problem sharing their wealth, _Oriné noted.

The twins strode right up to the front door and pressed the holographic rune set into the center, sounding a chime that reverberated throughout the grounds. It was light but loud, not so much as to disturb anyone but certainly to notify others of their presence. Both Oriné and Fulsa saw Honor Guards seeming to appear from thin air on either side of them a distance away, both armed with... the young warrior frowned. He didn't recognize the weapons; they must have been newly developed. Though the Covenant used Forerunner artifacts as they were found, the military often tried to use the same concepts to build and improve upon the weapons. Plasma rifles and pistols were the basic Forerunner weapons they used, and by attempting to reverse engineer them the Covenant had created Needlers and Fuel Rod Guns. The weapons carried by the Honor Guards here, with bulbous stocks and long thin barrels, must have been the latest attempt at yet again improving the arsenal.

With a hiss the door in front of them parted and a timid Unggoy slave poked his head out. "Yes, Excellencies?" Oriné sighed at the honorific but didn't bother to correct him.

"We are here to go with Yarna 'Orgalmee into the city," he said. "We are expected."

The Unggoy bowed low and retreated, allowing the pair to step into the foyer. It was lavishly decorated with precious metals that glinted magnificently in the faded purple light of an overhead fixture. There was a small table in the middle of the room, in front of which both Sangheili kneeled. As they did so, the table beeped in recognition, part of it descending into a hidden shaft; when it returned, it bore two glasses of wine. Both crinkled their noses in disgust: Oriné could still feel his headache buzzing in the back of his head, and Fulsa as a priestess-to-be was forbidden from imbibing alcohol... at least until she wasn't in the home of a Councilor. The tray upon which the drinks were placed stayed there for a moment until it detected that neither glass had been removed, at which point it retreated again. When next it appeared, it carried glasses of water, which both Sangheili accepted. They gulped it down and returned the cups to the tray; it beeped almost happily and descended again, returning empty.

Moments later Yarna entered the room, wearing a casual tunic. Upon seeing Oriné his mandibles parted in a wide smile and embraced his friend.

"We saw each other only last night," Oriné chided the other Sangheili jokingly. "No need to be so affectionate."

Yarna punched him lightly in the arm. "Only you would say that, Oriné, and get away with it." He paused, taking notice of Fulsa. "Ah, you must be Oriné's sister! I have heard so much about you. It is a pleasure for us to finally meet."

"Greetings, Excellency," Fulsa said, getting up just to bow. "It's an honor to be in your lovely home."

At this a puzzled look crossed the slightly older Sangheili's face. "Excellency?"

"Yes," she replied, "are you not the son of a High Councilor?"

"I am," he said warily.

She bowed again. "Then you and all your family are truly deserving of honor."

Now annoyance was all that dominated his features. "Now see here," he growled, "I am hardly any older than you, and you would not treat an equal with such respect. I will not have it! I demand that you call me Yarna; I am neither a Councilor nor an accomplished warrior and shall not be treated as either until I have fulfilled one or both of those roles!" The rant was obviously ironic and Fulsa giggled, but nodded her agreement. "Good," Yarna said, "now let's go. I tire of this boring place."

As the group moved as one out the door, Yarna cast a sly glance at his fellow Elite. "Oriné, my friend," he said, no small amount of amusement in his voice, "are you wearing a curtain?"

* * *

The sun was beginning its long and graceful decline in the sky when the trio decided they had walked about enough. After first dipping their hands in a nearby fountain they made for an open-air eatery. A tarp had been erected to protect against the rays of the primary star Urs; the two other stars in the cluster, Fied and Joori, were visible depending on the time of day, but they hadn't the same effect on the surface temperature of Sanghelios.

Grateful for the shade, Oriné signaled an Unggoy servant and ordered drinks for himself and his companions. His own headache had died down, so he asked for a cup of toriqoo, a thick and energizing drink made from a blend of several native roots. Yarna did not seem to suffer from hangovers and requested a goblet of a light wine; Fulsa, conscious of her newfound station and the sigil she had to wear around her neck, asked only for water.

Soon after Oriné felt a presence behind him and turned to find himself staring into a pair of emerald eyes. "Friends," Rtas 'Vadumee said jovially, "I'm happy to see you up and active! After last night, I feared you would be bedridden for at least a full day."

"I'm afraid Oriné cannot remember last night's events with anything resembling clarity," Yarna said, chuckling and motioning for the newcomer to take a seat. "He is far more vulnerable to the drink than we are."

Rtas sat and smiled. "Then he does not recall the dancing?"

Oriné felt the tremors of his headache returning. "What dancing?"

"Oh," Rtas said knowingly, "there was much dancing."

Seeing his sister giggling at some memory, Oriné quickly attempted to derail the subject. "I don't believe you were formally introduced," he said. "Rtas, this is my sister Fulsa. Fulsa, this is my good friend and comrade Rtas 'Vadumee."

"A pleasure to be in your presence," she said.

Rtas eyed the sigil around her neck. "Far from it, the honor is mine to stand in your radiant and holy beauty. To be a priestess, a speaker for the Prophets and the Gods Themselves is the highest divinity any Sangheili can hope to achieve." He made a show of standing and giving a low and protracted bow. Fulsa blushed madly, a deep violet hue coming to her cheeks, and Yarna and Oriné raised their hands in front of their mandibles to hide their smirks.

Their drinks arrived and they sat chatting and relaxing in the shade. It had been a long time since they were able to be so social, and now the three cadets were reveling in the ability; Fulsa was just happy to be included, as she had civilization at her fingertips while away for her own studies.

"I wanted to thank you and your father for the nadier," Oriné said as he set his cup on the table. Rtas set aside his own flute of water and shook his head.

"No thanks are necessary," he said. "My father reviewed our reports of Jisako and decided that you deserved them. I have my own set; we should come together some time for a duel so that we may learn together the intricacies of nadier combat."

"I would like that."

Their conversations continued until the sky began to glow a light orange. Realizing the time, they exchanged farewells (Rtas again being overly enthusiastic in his goodbye to Fulsa, and promising Oriné a duel for tomorrow evening) and went on their own ways. Oriné and his sister walked with Yarna back to the manor district, and after seeing him safely to his door they made their way back to their own modest flat.

The sky was a deep bronze color when they alighted on their balcony and entered the home. Dinner was almost prepared thanks to the combined efforts of Alsa and Sasat. It was a hearty meal, with a course of fish and a course of meat, all spiced and seasoned to Oriné's taste. Soups were prepared, there was bread to be had, and for after dinner the 'Fulsam matriarch had even managed to find some of Oriné's beloved Kig-Yar sweets. It was all for the sake of the returning cadet, in honor of him having survived.

Truly, he knew, he was blessed.

* * *

"You don't seem well."

Alsa was startled out of her internal reverie by Sasat's statement. The Unggoy was with her in the kitchen as the late morning light streamed in through the window. The pair of them were attempting to reorganize the cupboards so that the small slave maid might have better access to the cooking materials she required. Unfortunately they couldn't make the stovetop any lower, but they could build a platform for her to stand on.

She shuffled a container of preservatives into a cupboard. "I suppose I'm concerned," she muttered.

"About what?"

"Oriné," she replied. "He's home and it's like a dream come true, but in not too long a time he'll be gone, and so will Fulsa. One a warrior to bring death to the heretics, the other a priestess to spread the word of the Prophets." At the moment, Oriné wasn't in the flat. He and his father had gone out for practice, Orita wanting to see how Oriné had developed while away on the desert world. Fulsa was on the premises, but in her room meditating. "I fear for them."

"I understand," Sasat said. "The care of a mother cannot be outweighed by promises of glory and divinity. I myself feel anxiety over the fate of my many children, though I may never see them again."

Alsa's heart broke a little more upon hearing that. "Your children were taken from you?"

"Yes, by order of the Prophets. They were to be raised into warriors and breeders all."

The Sangheili female hesitated for a moment. She felt pity and sorrow for the Unggoy slave maid, but to express it would also be to defy the Prophets' will. No matter how much her heart bled, she could not speak it. "How many children have you had?" she asked instead.

"Twenty-six."

Her mandibles fell agape. Sasat smiled at her reaction. "Yes," the maid said, "we Unggoy are set apart by our the ability to make many children. Ordinarily there are around seven young per clutch, but I was blessed with more."

"And... you were allowed to keep none of them?"

A spell of silence fell over the Unggoy. "No," she said finally. Alsa put a hand on Sasat's shoulder, a gesture of support and understanding. In a way, her two children, not to mention their older brother, were being taken from her as well, but to far more noble and ambitious callings than Unggoy young.

_It is hard to remember_, she reminded herself, _but others suffer just as much as I_.

* * *

Oriné and Rtas 'Vadumee collapsed in the street, their breathing coming in labored and difficult. Their breath was ragged and stilted and anyone passing by would have thought they were having difficulty breathing; only they knew that it was supposed to be laughter. Both clutched a nadier rod in each bruised hand, the silver shining brilliantly in the moonlight.

"You pick things up quickly," Rtas finally managed, rolling his left eye to face Oriné. "Already you have almost mastered the ancient dueling arts. When you finally do take up the energy sword, I fear for your opponents."

The other Sangheili chuckled and coughed. "Do not forget you were the one who taught me, and your father was the one who gave me the gift of these nadier." He glanced over at his companion. Rtas was physically like any other Sangheili except his emerald eyes. The most common eye colors were black and brown, and even more common than green was red; myth said that green eyes denoted significance in the Great Design of the Forerunner, but Oriné didn't quite believe that. Internally, however, Rtas was a very intense individual. If you were his friend he would make every sacrifice for your sake, and if you were his enemy he would strike you down with the force of a God.

For a moment they lay there staring into the sky. The light of the moons drowned the stars but it was still beautiful. Had they had the inclination to get up and find higher ground they could have gazed out over the intricate twinkling of the capital city, but they were too damaged to do much moving.

It was too bad, because a moment later Oriné heard his name called from the balcony of his family's flat nearby. It was his mother. "Come home at once!" she shouted. "We have a communication with your brother!"

He eased himself up slowly, though his mind was alight with giddy happiness. At his feet Rtas waved his hand dismissively. "Go, speak with your brother. I must return home myself." Oriné nodded his goodbye and took off at a steady limp, tenderly entering the gravity lift that led up to his family's balcony. He pushed aside the drapery that led inside and saw his family gathered around a blue-purple hologram. It depicted a Sangheili dressed in the armor of a Ship Commander, standing tall and proud; his entire family was turned to face him, the hologram on a one-point-five second delay.

"Orna!" Oriné called out and waved with one hand, the other clutching his side where he was certain his rib was bruised. "How is space?"

Orna smiled. "Dark, brother. Dark and cold. How have you been? What have you been up to?"

Their father nodded towards the damaged Sangheili. "He has been outside training with Rtas 'Vadumee in nadier duels."

"He will be a fearsome warrior," the youngest 'Fulsam male said, "but I am fine, brother. As you can see I survived Jisako with all my limbs intact." He stretched out his arms to emphasize his point; his shoulders burned in their complaint.

His brother grinned. "Yes, but have your comrades named a maneuver after you?"

Oriné had to admit they had not.

For the next hour the family talked of what had transpired since they last heard from the older son. Each related personal tales but the primary focus was on Oriné and Orna. The eldest spoke first, relating his stories of life battling the humans and exploring space. He told riveting accounts of space battles, hearts-throbbing discoveries, and personal loss. They ended with a vague description of an engagement he was not permitted to discuss.

"Suffice to say," he finished, "there are terrible and frightening things in the blackness, much that the Covenant has to fear."

Oriné went next, sharing details of his time spent on Jisako. At some points his mother left the room, unable to hear the vivid hardships her son had to endure or the sights he now carried in his heart. He finished with his final battle with a Yorahii beast that left both his father and brother stunned.

"Son, are you telling lies in my house?" Orita could hardly believe it.

"Certainly not. It's the truth." He beamed.

Orna shook his head. "I can't believe they didn't name a maneuver after you. I accomplished less and they insist on calling that trap in the sand the Orna-salas. You should have an Oriné-salal." The little brother merely shrugged. Small talk ensued for another good half-hour before finally the eldest 'Fulsam child had to take his leave.

"I must prepare the simulations for tomorrow," he said, "No one believes me when I tell them this ship is hardy enough to survive a trip through the Arkonon nebula; I have to go out of my way to show them, especially that 'Kaeromee. He's an incredible doubter." Each member of the family stepped forward and touched foreheads with the hologram. It was a hard-light version so they could feel the photons pushing against their own skin, offering life-like resistance. It disappeared soon after, leaving a fading purple after-image.

Afterwards the family settled down for an evening meal. "How goes your training with the young 'Vadumee?" Orita asked before digging into a bowl of fruit. "You said he was a worthy opponent."

"Yes he is," Oriné replied, showing his various cuts and bruises.

Alsa and Fulsa blanched. "This is your first time and he didn't hold his blows?" his mother demanded.

"It is a rule of dueling, my love," her mate replied, putting a hand on her shoulder. "One cannot train in the ways of spilling blood without partaking in the act."

The younger male smiled sheepishly. "It is a rule Rtas is very familiar with."

* * *

That night, Orita stood out on the balcony of his flat and stared out into the street. Off in the distance were lights and sounds of the city where the mere setting of the sun could not halt the veracity of life. The moon still hung in the sky; it would be another two months before it moved out of sight of the capital.

He allowed the breeze to calm him, though it occasionally picked up speed and swiped at his robe: there was a storm coming soon. What was also coming was Oriné's departure, with only half a week left until his son would depart to Institution. Memories welled up from his aging mind of his own arrival and the trials he would face. Jisako was certainly more physically difficult, but Institution would test his heart, his mind... and his faith. Not only would he face many combat exercises but he would have to learn the biology, history, and culture of his enemies and allies. When Orita had himself attended the enemy had been the Jiralhanae, but the ultimate goal of that war had been their subjugation into the Covenant as Brutes. There had been no glassing of planets or widespread genocide of that race; other species had been completely wiped out in the name of the Holy Covenant, but the Jiralhanae proved themselves useful, or so the Hierarchs said.

These humans, however, had been declared vile affronts to the gods by the Prophet Hierarchs. Their planets were not to be conquered but converted to ash. Their people had no place even as slaves, only as ghosts. The now-retired Ship Commander had fought in the early campaigns of that war and found that, while primitive, they were resourceful. Certainly of more value than the Jiralhanae.

The Sangheili shook his head and cleared his mind. His thoughts were bordering on heresy. That would not do.

For a while longer he stood stoically gazing off into space, where his mind tricked him into believing he could see the hovering starships, until he sensed another presence beside him. He turned and saw Alsa, a light shawl wrapped around her shoulders to protect her neck from the wind. The moonlight on her face was beautiful and enraptured him for quite a time.

Eventually Orita regained the mental faculty to speak. "How do you feel?"

"Hollow," she said. "Do you recall what happened after Orna left for Institution? We could not contact him, and it was rare when he contacted us. After his successful survival he didn't even return home, he was just sent straight to the front lines. All those months of waiting, agonizing... we had no idea if he was alive or dead."

Orita moved and wrapped his arms around his mate. "Yes, that may be true, but when we heard from him again he was already an Elite Major. He had his own squad of troops to command. Do you remember the honor we felt then, and the happiness?"

"I remember the additional wait after that."

"As do I. I remember that our son actually came home and was the same rank as I already, having time and again proved himself in combat." He continued before she could interrupt. "And though there was another period of waiting now he has contacted us again, and he is eligible for the position of Ship Master. He will be given his own ship. Not long after he shall become a Fleet Commander, then a Fleet Master... and perhaps, one day, he will achieve the rank of Supreme Commander." She raised her head up to look at him and he took the opportunity to rest his forehead against hers. "What honor shall we feel then? Our son will be a true leader in the Covenant and bring us honor, glory, happiness... security."

There was a long period of silence. "What of Oriné?" she asked.

"You heard his tale from Jisako," Orita replied, "as did I. I have no doubt that he will succeed Institution and go on to achieve as much as Orna has." That seemed to comfort Alsa, so the two stood there gazing across the cityscape for a while longer. He had retreated here to be in quiet and silence, but his mate had required reassurance and that meant talking. Though it wasn't something he had wanted to do, he had no problems talking, especially to his mate.

Afterwards, however, they didn't say much at all.

* * *

Oriné 'Fulsamee, clad in his emerald armor, stared up at the massive cruiser that had descended from orbit and landed in the large open field, precipitation falling down in a light but constant sheet. He stood among the twenty-six other Elite Juniors that had survived Jisako, which in turn stood among the hundreds more that had also passed their trials of Jisako but in different sectors. Yarna 'Orgalmee stood in front of him, and in front of them both was Olah 'Seroumee. They stood rigidly at attention in a standard grid pattern, staring straight ahead, and waiting for the order to walk forward into the purple shaft of light.

_This is it, _he thought, _there is no turning back. I could not have run away before, it is true, as I would have brought dishonor to my Lineage. But now... now it is so much more palpable. _His eyes swept over the curvaceous hull of the purplish-grey ship, taking in the bulbous form. The battle cruiser, the _Steadfast Knight, _was unfamiliar to him; his studies on Sanghelios concerned only his own race and its culture with minimal exposure to the Covenant overall except through the Convent's cathedrals. There he had learned reverence, but very little technology; he knew about shields, though, and could see where the rain was being deflected away from the hull.

A horn blasted through the constant hiss of falling moisture and immediately the Elite Juniors surged forward, moving as one towards the gravity lift. As soon as each section was inside they were lifted up into the belly of the waiting cruiser. When Oriné's section entered it felt like a thousand small, invisible hands seized every part of his body and lifted him through the air. There was a surge of adrenaline at the experience and he could see the ground drop away. He twisted his head to look over his shoulder and saw the capital city fall far beneath him, consumed in grey mist, the buildings becoming more obscure the higher he ascended. Somewhere, amidst the buildings, his father and mother were watching a live hologram of their son departing. Would they know he was in this section?

Oriné was drawn into the ship itself. That last bleak view of Sanghelios would stay with him for many years as the last time he surveyed his home world with any sense of joy.


	4. Institution

Chapter 4: Institution

The dropship bay was flooded with Elite Juniors, dotted here and there with blue- and red-armored supervisors trying their hardest to guide the young Sangheili to the shuttles. Oriné 'Fulsamee had never seen these craft before: they were called Phantoms, a far cry from the Spirit dropships he had been so accustomed to. They settled to the floor and opened a rear door, allowing passengers to flow into a much roomier compartment as opposed to individual troop-hatches.

"How long have these been in service?" he had asked the supervisor when the shuttles first entered the bay.

"Quite some time, but only recently have they been given military purpose," the cobalt-armored Elite Minor replied. He told the young cadet that it was intended for them to be armed with plasma weaponry and gravity lifts in order to act as front-line dropships.

On the inside they were just as fascinating. There were handholds on the wall for gripping, but upon seizing one for himself the emerald-armored Sangheili was told the walls themselves were magnetic. To test this he leaned against an area indicated with a faint outline; sure enough, as he neared it he felt the tug of magnetic forces that pulled him up to the wall and held him securely in his station. The handholds, he was told, were for races such as the Kig-Yar or Jiralhanae who didn't wear armor as dense as the Elites did. In the center of the floor was an outline for where Unggoy were supposed to stand.

After he and thirteen other passengers were securely docked, an Unggoy did indeed waddle out of the cockpit and walk around to check everybody's wall connections. This was the first time Oriné had seen one dressed in the combat armor of a Grunt: it was bright red with a hump on the back that swooped up into a point. A more secure breather was also fit to his face with two small tubes rushing back from either side to merge with the larger unit. It was chipped and smudged with use; it had obviously seen many battles with possibly as many wearers.

"You're all set," he said, walking out the rear door before it closed. "Enjoy your stay." The large portal hissed shut and for a tense moment nothing happened. A fist of iron seized Oriné's stomachs and squeezed them; now he was happy he hadn't eaten. The anticipation was getting to him and he struggled to keep control of it. A prayer pushed its way through his mandibles:

_Protect us, O Forerunner,_

_Through perilous flights through space_

_No matter the distance;_

_Your presence gives us peace of mind_

_And ease of heart._

_Should this be our very last flight_

_Then we shall humbly take our place in oblivion_

_Until the start of the Great Journey._

It wasn't appropriate for the occasion, as he knew he was secure: no human ships nor heretic vessels could make it so far into Covenant space as Institution. However, as he repeated it, he heard his fellows whispering it with him.

Then they felt it: a sudden feeling of weightlessness as the Phantom lifted from the deck and passed into space. It was purely physiological, as the gravity-control in the ship was perfectly normal, but all fourteen passengers could feel the sensation of standing on nothing. Yet no one dared cry out or utter a sound that was not a good-hearted jeer or solemn appeal to the gods, for fear of being instantly recognized as a weakling and from then on shunned.

Oriné closed his eyes and called up memories from the depths of his mind to help comfort him. He recalled with ease the first day his father took him outside the city to an open field, allowing him to first run around and play before picking up two sticks and, after tossing one to his son, instructing him in the rules of honorable combat.

"You must never strike an opponent dishonorably," Orita had said before they began. "That means no attacking from behind or striking for the lung."

"Why not the lung, father?" Oriné had asked. At the time he had been unsure of what a lung actually was.

Orita patted his own chest. "That is our most vulnerable spot, aside from our heads."

"Then why is it not dishonorable to strike an opponent in the head?"

"Two reasons: because you will be expected to wear a helmet, and in order to deliver a quick killing or disabling blow you must go for the head. The lung is far too slow of a death."

They had fought then, a father and son training in the wilderness with sticks. When they returned to their home they brought the sticks with them and whittled them into fighting poles; for every subsequent day they spent training they used those same poles. In the week before his departure to Jisako, as dictated by tradition, Orita took his son on a five-day retreat. They had slept under the stars, exercised together under the warm day's sun, and bathed in rivers and ponds. His father told him stories about the Covenant, not how it was created (as he had learned in school) but how it now operated. He told him about the war with the Jiralhanae and the subsequent battles in the war with the humans. Strangely, Orita had spoken of the humans with respect.

"Why do you recognize their ingenuity?" Oriné had asked after he finished with a story about a battle over a world called Harvest. "Are they not abominations in the eyes of the Forerunner?"

Orita nodded. "I am certain they are, but nevertheless they are worthy opponents. When you fight them, I want you to remember that you are not exterminating lowly beasts, no matter what the Clerics or Prophets tell you. All the soldiers who died had only contempt for the humans. Instead, know that you fight equals on the field of battle and treat them as such; that is the only way you will survive them."

Now Oriné wondered what Institution would tell him of the humans.

The pilot's voice cut through his internal reverie. "We are approaching Institution," he said. "Would anybody like a preview?" A hologram fizzled into existence in the center of the troop bay. It was a two-dimensional live feed from the cockpit, flat and visible from either side. Hovering in space was what resembled a titanic thumbtack turned upside down, with the base being composed of fragmented rock spangled with meteor impact craters and the thin needle made up of intertwining spires. All around it hovered rings of asteroids in which defenses could be easily hidden and between which Institution's defense fleet, the Fleet of Distinct Sanction, zipped in and out of.

It took only a moment of observation before rumors flew about the cabin.

"I have heard it was made using the remains of the Prophets' home world after they constructed High Charity," the Elite Junior next to Oriné said, reverence buzzing in his tone.

"You are wrong," one from across the bay sneered. "It was constructed from the ruins of the home world of the First Heretic Race that stood in defiance of the Holy Covenant."

"Those spires are made from damaged battleships that were retired from service," a third chimed in.

"Impossible. The shipyards around Aquova break down all retired cruisers and use all the materials to make new ones. Nothing is wasted." The conversations continued back and forth, eventually tapering off into everyone staring at the hologram, the image in which grew progressively larger as they approached; in their hearts, too, they knew the significance grew. Their destinies were approaching, be they honorable or otherwise.

Slowly they reached their goal and the shuttle was admitted into the lower docking bays of Institution. Either intentionally or by accident the hologram was left on, allowing the cadets in the cabin to get an early view of the bay: it was unimpressive, almost identical to the one on the cruiser they had just departed but shorter and wider. Their shuttle settled into the top tier, turning around and pressing its stern as close to the walkway as it could so as to afford the cadets an easier time getting across.

By an electronic command from the cockpit the magnets on the walls released the fourteen young Sangheili. They all stretched their restless limbs and exchanged a few muttered words in the moments before the door opened. When it did they quickly arranged themselves into two neat files of seven and marched off the Phantom, making small jumps to clear the gap. Three other shuttles had settled onto the same tier, making a grand total of fifty-six Elite Juniors on the same walkway. Discipline, however, demanded that they be courteous and respectful of each other; there was very little pushing, yet a great deal of pressure.

Unexpectedly a chime sounded right in Oriné's ear. His head shot up in surprise and he looked around for the source. There was nothing to be seen, however, and judging by the looks on his fellows' faces and their similar reactions they must have heard it.

A voice began speaking in his ear. He realized that it had been the sound of the radio systems in his armor linking up to Institution's CommuNet, the station-wide communications band.

"Elite Junior Oriné 'Fulsamee," the voice said, "arrival from Lomak, Sangheil. You are hereby assigned to First Battalion, Reverent Company, Squadron Twenty-two; your quarters are located on deck Residential-Forty-Eight, Room Fifteen-Zero-Five. Please report to that location with due haste." He did as he was told as quickly as he could, but it took him several minutes to finally work his way out of the crowd. From there he navigated through purplish-grey hallways, moving through other emerald-armored cadets until he found a gravity-lift station.

All around were Elite Minors, trying their best to remain calm and helpful in explaining things to the newcomers. "Your ears, if you hope to find your proper floor," they demanded. "As you approach each lift, make sure you have programmed your destination into your armor using your wrist-mounted unit. If you fail to do this the lift will merely hold you in place until you either program a destination or collide with another who has already mastered their own technology."

"Avoid collisions," a second Elite Minor said. "They are painful and embarrassing for both parties involved."

They continued to give pointers, but Oriné was told to make haste, so he quickly regarded the computer on his arm. It at first appeared to be an oblong spot of a sickly orange luminescence on the bottom of his forearm armor, but as soon as he touched a finger to it the orange changed to light blue and text appeared on the surface like glaze. By navigating the available menus he found that not only could he specify destination but also what communications channel he was listening to.

Time was of the essence, however, and he dedicated his armor to guide him to deck Residential-Forty-Eight. He noted that, though one side of the room was intended to have gravity lifts going up and the other going down, all lifts were ascending due to the sudden influx of cadets.

He was almost certain that his floor was up.

Stepping into the gravity lift felt the same as when he was beneath the cruiser on Sangheil. He was seized, but this time instead of being gently lifted he was hurled upwards with tremendous force; at first he panicked but after a moment was able to rationalize that he would have a distance to travel and the lift wanted to get him there as fast as it could.

The lift kept him in its claustrophobic shaft for a full minute, and as he passed through openings he could see out into other decks. Several of them were utilitarian, littered with mechanical parts and filled with Huragok Engineers and Yanme'e Drones, bustling about their work with single-minded dexterity. Suddenly, however, he passed into the realm of habitation decks. Each second-long glimpse of the decks revealed bits and pieces of different cultures and styles, and for the first time the thought genuinely occurred to him that the Sangheili would not be alone here. The other races, the Unggoy, Kig-Yar, Jiralhanae, and Lekgolo, would be living and studying alongside them. The idea excited him: his only real exposure had been to the Unggoy, and it would be fascinating to work next to other races of the Covenant.

The lift slowed him as he approached his floor and gently pushed him out of the way as others raced past, sending him stumbling into a hub-junction of eight hallways. It took Oriné a moment to regain his balance, something he knew would be gradually worked out of him throughout his time spent here. Glancing around he realized that there were other cadets milling about, most examining the markings on the wall and attempting to decipher where their rooms were. He pushed through the crowds and checked the writing, finding the appropriate hall and walking as fast as he dared down it. These hallways were all bare metal with only the occasional imperfection by way of removed panels that exposed piping or crudely etched messages that exposed the ineptitude of certain trainees; Oriné did his best not to stare, but a few of the more colorful exposures drew his eyes.

Finally he found room 1505, the door humming a pleasant note before sliding apart at a triple-seam. The inside was more spacious than he had dared hope: at the center were arrayed enough gravity-bunk units and around the edges enough desks to accommodate fifty Sangheili; through the rungs of the bunks he could see a secondary room on the other side of this one full of equipment. It was, perhaps, the training room.

More importantly Oriné noted that he was not the first one here. A handful of other Elite Juniors were standing about admiring or scorning their new home; Yarna 'Orgalmee, however, stood out to Oriné in the group.

"Yarna!" he called out, walking over. Yarna looked up from the surface of a desk and smiled at his friend.

"Oriné, it's good to see you survived your shuttle journey," he jibed. "I thought for a moment the shivers would get you."

The slightly younger Sangheili roughly bumped foreheads with his friend, the helmet material clacking. "You would believe that, wouldn't you? After all, it was you who became ill during our flight to Jisako." Yarna scowled and punched Oriné in the arm a bit harder than was friendly, but the latter smiled anyway. He quickly set about getting his own marveling out of the way, noting how the desks had Lumidexes built in and connected to Institution's amazingly large database. The gravity bunks were strange, however, in their function: each had a series of small gravity "platforms" generated in the supporting rungs of the unit, four platforms total in a tiered formation. When a cadet climbed onto one it created a gravity bubble around said cadet that repelled outward, allowing the next to use it as a stepping stone to reach the next bunk. Oriné realized, after thinking about it, that he would much prefer being on the top bunk. That way he needn't suffer the anxiety of the bubble failing and his bunkmates stepping on him.

"Well?" Yarna asked from behind him after a moment. "What do you think?"

"I think its home."

* * *

The grand assembly hall was located at the base of the spires. It appeared as a bulge from the outside, but on the inside it was a fantastically large dome, big enough to hold all the occupants of Institution within its walls. Yarna 'Orgalmee had noted a strange diploid tendency of Institution: a section was either threadbare and purely utilitarian or ornately decorated and lavishly furnished. This hall was one of the latter. Sacred halli trees from Sangheil lined the walls and intricately-sewn draperies hung in pairs near each of them. Small standing pools teeming with aquatic life were slowly filled with trickling water running in rivulets through small canals. There were no chairs: all races were meant to stand, and there were several races present indeed.

Everything was centered around a single raised platform in the middle of the room illuminated by a shaft of bright white light, the four races arranged like spokes radiating from that center point. The Sangheili merely made up one spoke, the slight upwards curvature of the floor allowing people in the back to get a good view of the center stage. They all wore emerald armor until the very back where several Elite Minors and a handful of Elite Majors stood, keeping a careful eye on their charges. There were thousands of Sangheili trainees present, and any one of them could cause trouble.

Clockwise from the natives of Sangheil were the Lekgolo, the "Hunters." All of them wore heavy blue armor with spines and quadruple-digit gauntlets. At twelve feet tall and resembling walking tanks, even the Elites had kept their distance, but Yarna had allowed himself a few moments to observe them. As far as he could tell they were fairly relaxed, unlike the Sangheili who had to remain at strict attention, and they rumbled and hissed in their native tongues to each other. There was one curious thing: based on the still images he had seen of fully-equipped Hunters they had a heavy cannon on their right arms and a large steel on their left. These inductees, however, had neither; instead they wore the curious four-fingered manipulators. As he watched them move their own "hands" with a cautious curiosity Yarna could only surmise that they didn't usually wear them. The Lekgolo were essentially colonies of thousands of eel-like worms that came together to form bipedal, lanky creatures; perhaps they didn't have hands at all?

Counterclockwise were the Unggoy clad in their Grunt armor. Unlike the Elites and Hunters there was no easy way to distinguish a newly-arrived Grunt from one who had been there for a while; the newest arrivals wore the standard orange Grunt Minor armor. The only way Yarna supposed to tell them apart was to look at their skin: the more an Unggoy aged the rougher and craggier its skin would become. Those with the smoothest skin were undoubtedly trainees. They were standing at attention, but because of their naturally stooped posture it was difficult to tell. Looking at them, Yarna couldn't help but grimace: though the Sangheili were the backbone of the Covenant, the Unggoy were the workhorses, and it showed. They weren't much to look at but they were _numerous._

Directly across, mostly obscured by the stage, was the fourth race of soldiers. The Jiralhanae. The _Brutes. _A tingle of apprehension ran up his spine. He had never met a Jiralhanae, and from the stories his father told he never wanted to. They were boorish, undisciplined; even from here he could tell they were making the most noise. They were roughly the size of a Sangheili, but the similarities abruptly ended there. Tufts of fur and leathery patches of hide formed a strikingly simian appearance; like the humans they had an upper palate and a single lower jaw, though from it grew razor-sharp tusks and fangs. Behaviorally they followed a tribe system with a Chieftain at the head and lesser lieutenants acting out his will. That Chieftain carried a totem of power, a personal item of importance that distinguished him and kept the others under control; recently, according to his father, it was something called the "Fist of Rukt," though Yarna didn't know what it was.

The light in the center of the room intensified, forcing Yarna to squint against it. A shape floated down from the top; as far as the young Sangheili could tell there must have been a hole up there, but it was washed out with the light. As the shape distanced itself from the source of the light it became clearer: it was a chair... no, a _throne. _In that throne sat a figure, slight of build with wispy features and an elaborate crown of gold.

Yarna's breath caught in his throat. A Prophet.

"Greetings, my children," he called out. His voice was vigorous, reaching all corners of the chamber seemingly without effort. "I congratulate you! You have taken the first steps to becoming the mightiest warriors the Covenant has to use." The throne reached the stage... or at least got as close as it was going to get. It hovered in the air staying perfectly steady except for when its occupant gestured with his arms, adorned with a regal red robe.

"I am the High Prophet of Regret," the figure said. Now all the way down his physical features were easier to make out. A frown formed on Yarna's mandibles. He didn't know the Prophet but that didn't matter: he wore the vestments of a Hierarch, something that could not be faked. What _did _matter, however, was how he looked. Even though he was obviously young and, supposedly, in his prime, there was a high degree of frailty to him. His fingers were long and thin, his neck was arched and curved, and when his sleeves tumbled back it looked like the Sangheili would have no trouble wrapping a single hand around it and snapping it like a twig. Regret's eyes bulged, ringed with what looked like fleshy eyelashes.

All the Sangheili had seen the murals on their home world, but somehow the Prophets seemed less impressive in person. No one dared voice this opinion, however.

The Prophet took a moment to complete a rotation, observing the entire chamber. He lingered for a moment on the Jiralhanae but kept his pace. As he finished the rotation slowed but stayed constant: he was trying to appear fair to all races. "This glorious Institution," he began, "has served as the training place for all Covenant forces here in the beating heart of our own territory. The greatest heroes and Arbiters have passed through these halls, studied the ways of combat and philosophy, and gone on to become legends in our sacred lore." He gestured upwards into the shaft of light enthusiastically. "Nine ages of time have passed, and in every one, Institution has borne hundreds of gifted warriors on to their destinies of urging the Great Journey forward."

Yarna momentarily lost interest in what the Prophet was saying and allowed his eyes to wander a little. Oriné was situated a few rows closer to Regret and appeared completely enthralled. Olah 'Seroumee was also a distance away, closer to Oriné than to Yarna, but seemed to have the same waning attentiveness to the presentation.

Satisfying himself that there was nothing better to focus on, he returned his attention to the Prophet. "Within these hallowed walls," he was still saying, "you will have access to the greatest treasures of knowledge the Covenant has at its disposal. Unlike the facilities on Estuarini, Institution has a data-link with the Sacred Text databases on High Charity that is updated daily.

"Also unlike other facilities, we have the greatest soldiers to teach you the arts of combat. Be you Lekgolo, Sangheili, Jiralhanae, or," he paused for a light chuckle that came to his throat, "even Unggoy, you will be trained to be the best on the battlefield." Regret's chuckle proceeded uneasily through the ranks of Sangheili and Unggoy, uproariously through the Jiralhanae, and not at all through the Lekgolo. "Access to the latest technological developments will be yours at all times; the training grounds are constantly staffed and will never be without attendants. Furthermore the libraries, temples, and meditation courts will also have an all-hour access.

"Now it is time for you all to become adjusted to your new surroundings. You shall be dismissed to your quarters, familiarized with the standards of organization, and allowed the rest of the day to explore. Tomorrow begins your official training."

A strange smile crossed Regret's lips, one that chilled Yarna's heart. "Godspeed," the Prophet finished and rose once more into the light. His ascension this time seemed much more rapid and hasty, a fact that stuck with the young Sangheili more than anything the Hierarch had said.

* * *

"Attention!" the Elite Major called out. The Sangheili had all proceeded back to their quarters; Oriné was in his, along with Yarna, Olah, and forty-seven others. The warrior in the crimson armor had been waiting for their return.

"Here in Institution, we operate based on squadrons." The Major gestured to the assembled Sangheili. "This is your squadron: fifty of you. You will be divided into five units of ten each, with one member from each unit serving as unit commander, and one unit commander serving as the squadron commander. Commanders will be decided upon through combat." He nodded to the room. "This will be your new home. You will conduct all battle exercises and all studies with your squadron. You will be expected to keep each other going, and to excel under extreme pressure. That is what it means to be Elites within the Covenant: leadership, tactical ability, and the combat skills necessary to back it up.

"You are all considered Rank Threes. You will be promoted to Rank Two and, subsequently, Rank One when your squad has demonstrated the proper skills necessary to ascend." He began pacing back and forth, his arms swaying stiffly at his side. "You will _not _be promoted based on individual merit. If your squad fails, so do you. Working together is what makes the Sangheili Elites and not Grunts."

The Major paused and looked down Oriné's line. The Elite Junior was third in line; Olah 'Seroumee was first. "You will also work in tangent with the other combat races," he continued, and returned to his even pace as he did so. "Be they Hunters, Grunts, or even Brutes you will treat them with respect; as far as the Covenant is concerned you are all of the same rank." Oriné hesitated; he believed he had no problem working with the other races but he knew his comrades might not have that same ease. They had been raised on bias. Admittedly so had he: his father often used the words "Brute" and "Grunt" detrimentally and sometimes Oriné couldn't help but repeat it.

A Sangheili stepped forth from the fifty, puffing his chest out and hollering, "Excellency!" The Major ceased and turned to regard the forthcoming Elite; the others kept their heads forward but rolled an eye to see their comrade.

"What is it, Junior?"

"Excellency, will we be training with the Kig-Yar as well? They were not at the ceremony."

The Major's eyes narrowed slightly. "The _Jackals _do not train with us; they train elsewhere. Occasionally flocks of them will be present for training purposes but they operate on... different principles than we do." Several of the young Sangheili in the crowd took notice of the hesitation in the Major's voice; Oriné could tell from the slight twitches of their mandibles or the barely-detectable rotation of their shoulders. Obviously these Jackals did not conduct themselves in a manner similar to the Elites.

The speech resumed, moving into sleeping schedules and time rotations. Yes, their senior told them, the places around Institution were open at all times but they weren't necessarily _accessible._ The cadets would only be allowed into the gardens, training grounds, and libraries when it was not a meal or sleep rotation; the only places that were truly open at all times were the cantinas and temples.

"Now," the Major finally said, "it is time to determine your commanders." He led the Elite Juniors into the training room off their main quarters. It was slightly smaller than their living space, but against all the walls were racks. Most were empty save for one wall full of long silver rods; the Sangheili knew them as malier, dueling staves that had come to replace the nadier for trainees, as Energy Swords were still too heavy and too dangerous to use.

"Everyone, take up a weapon and arrange yourselves in a circle," the Major ordered. Oriné walked up to a rack, as did everyone else, and grabbed one of the malier. It was lighter than his nadier, even with the gravity manipulation activated, but it required both hands for use. He gave it a test spin and found it to be satisfying; the whipping noise it made in the air filled him with an elation he had only been able to find through combat.

The Elite Juniors quickly formed the circle that had been asked of them, and the Major stood in the middle. "Bring up your wrist units," he ordered, and they did as they were told, planting one end of their staves on the ground and letting them rest against their shoulders as they observed their personal computers. "Set your armor to training, first standing. This is the lightest setting: you will be able to take four strikes to any part of your armor before it paralyzes your motion in that area. If you're hit four times in the head or torso you will be considered neutralized." They followed his orders, and while they struggled to program the correct setting he stepped out of the circle.

"Prepare yourselves," he loudly announced, then waited for a beat; it was long enough for the Sangheili to adopt the proper stance for staff combat.

"Go!" The room blurred into motion as the Elite Juniors made their premier strikes, the vast majority of them attacking the Elites to either side. Oriné opted for a different tactic, ducking beneath the blows of his two neighbors and rushing across the circle. Not only would this prevent him from being immediately sandwiched but his target was occupied with his own two companions; Oriné was able to land four rapid strikes to the Sangheili's chest and score the first kill of the battle. Pride filled his mind but that was quickly knocked out as he received a vicious blow to the back of his helmet; he turned as fast as he could and parried the next two attacks but the third struck his gauntlet. The pain flashed through his forearm and up to his head, and for a moment a vicious bloodlust took over; it was long enough for him to strike upwards and catch his attacker in the throat. He obviously hadn't expected that and went reeling backwards, dropping his malier and collapsing to the floor. Oriné delivered his swift blows to his comrade's head and effectively neutralized him, though he had the idea that the opponent wouldn't have been able to continue fighting with such hampered breathing.

Oriné looked up and observed the room: four-fifths of the Sangheili had been eliminated, either crawling or limping their way off the battleground to the corners of the room, resigned to spectating the remaining ten Elite Juniors.

There was a whistle in the air behind him, and the Sangheili barely rolled in time to avoid a hit to his back. Oriné twirled and swung his staff low to knock his opponent off his feet, but Yarna nimbly jumped over it and swiped his own weapon across Oriné's leg. He retaliated quickly, hitting the ground and rolling onto his back to deliver a powerful blow to his friend's stomach. He doubled over, allowing Oriné to get in two more hits; but before he could deliver the final one Yarna parried and struck him hard in the head. The younger cadet stumbled backwards and struggled to readjust his helmet after it had fallen a bit too far over his eyes. As soon as it was fixed he could see Yarna drawing back for another strike. Suddenly, just as Oriné was preparing to block the attack, Yarna cried out and collapsed to the floor, limp except for a prolonged groan.

Behind the prone Sangheili stood Olah 'Seroumee, staff still held in the air where he had struck Yarna's spine. He did not grin in victory or even make any kind of taunting movement; Olah merely locked eyes with Oriné and lunged forward. Twirling his malier Oriné was able to parry three attacks and then swing low to knock his opponent off-balance. Olah, however, jumped over it and did an impressive flip, landing on his hand and kicking Oriné in the face with a booted hoof. Blood trickled down his lower right mandible from a broken tooth and the cadet tried to force the pain out of his head; he staggered back but succeeded in raising his staff into a defensive position to block the next attack.

Olah, however, would not be so easily stopped. He allowed the malier to connect, but slid his own forward and smacked Oriné's forehead with it. The Sangheili stumbled and fell, the four fatal hits having been registered. At first there was pain, but a numbness flashed through his body and caused him to crumple to the floor, his weapon rolling out of his limp fingers. He grunted when he hit the floor, and then gasped as feeling gradually returned to him. With a great deal of effort he pulled himself to his feet and half-shuffled, half-limped to the sidelines, where he rested his back against the wall next to Yarna and watched the rest of the fight.

Olah 'Seroumee won and was given the title of unit commander; according to the collaborated stories of the rest, he hadn't taken a single hit throughout the course of the melee.

* * *

The curriculum at Institution was broken up into three principle parts: Combat, Faith, and Knowledge. Combat was constituted of time at the training grounds, fighting over varied terrain and learning the intricacies of battle under the careful guidance of the Sangheili Instructors. Oriné and his squadron were often pitted against each other and, in rare cases, against other squadrons in mock battles, in which they vied for control of certain objectives: Emblem tested their abilities to outwit each other, steal small colored cubes from their enemies, and return to their own base with them, while Expanse tried the skill of seizing and holding territories while the opposing team attempted the same. There was also Melee, which was a team exercise in completely eliminating the opponents.

These tests took place on several terrain types: there was a desert that was uncomfortably similar to Jisako, a forest arena, a field, and a mock human city in which to battle. They were given training rifles and pistols, or sometimes they were only allowed malier. Gradually they moved on from the first standing setting on their armor, proceeding to second and even third, each time the number of hits required for incapacitation was reduced by one; additionally, in third, the pain was enhanced to the point of feeling like a plasma burn.

Besides actually participating in battle they spent time learning about the different weapons at the disposal of the Covenant, of vehicles (some of which they would be given the opportunity to train with once they achieved Rank Two) and ships, and of battlefield tactics; occasionally the Instructors had them use simulators to wage war against each other to apply the things they learned.

Faith was, admittedly, much more dry and boring. The classes were taught by Lesser Prophets, and the Sangheili learned about the histories of the Covenant and the Forerunner. Oriné's favorite Forerunner tales were the Valor of Fasul and the Fall of Lithiom, but many more were told, including the Legend of the Rings, but Oriné found more comfort in the tale of battle and of warriors, not in myths of lost gateways. He believed that the path to the Great Journey lay in combat, and that the only way to take one's first step was to die in battle.

Regardless, his and his squadron's faith was tested every so often through the flawless reciting of prayer and scripture, seemingly at the Prophets' whim. The target of the day was often singled out, forced to stand alone and bidden to speak loudly and with conviction. In privacy they confided in each other that such tactics did not breed faith, but instead resentment of their Prophet teachers. Such feelings were only considered to be Minor Heresies, however, and were easily atoned for, thus they had no trouble divulging them to the other Sangheili.

Secretly, however, Oriné had a passion, and it lay within the realm of Knowledge. Under Knowledge, instructed by Magisters, they were taught many things that did not fall under the other two categories. How to accurately judge climate conditions with as little data as possible, the anatomy of themselves and the other Covenant clients, proper ways to take care of oneself be it on the battlefield or in times of peace. Over time Oriné learned things such as what was safe to eat and what wasn't, how to construct a sturdy shelter, how to ration supplies... and a great deal of general wisdom imparted upon him by the Magisters.

However, his true enthusiasm lied in Heretic Studies, specifically the humans. Magister Torlo 'Alsakee taught Oriné and his squadron this subject. His immediate uncle on his mother's side, Oriné often looked forward to Magister 'Alsakee's lectures.

"Today we shall discuss the anatomy of the humans," 'Alsakee began, pressing a few runes on a holographic display and calling forth a three-dimensional image of a bipedal heretic. Several members of Oriné's squadron began crying out and hissing, a few seizing personal objects to toss through the Spirit. The Magister bellowed for quiet.

"Thank you for that display of barbarism," he said, even though a smile pulled at his mandibles. "Now let's continue. This is your average adult human male; approximate height at six feet. You will most likely see this specimen dressed thusly—" the image changed to represent a human Marine, in full combat gear, "—or perhaps you will see him as this." Once again the image changed, this time from armor to what the Covenant had come to understand as their civilian clothes: cloth coverings that were tight against the torso and bits that fully encircled the individual limbs. It looked far too restricted and uncomfortable.

The image changed back to its original, naked state and the diverged into a second version, largely similar with a few notable differences. "This other image is a human female, approximately five feet and eight inches tall. Note the lack of external sex organs and the expanded mammary glands." 'Alsakee waved his hand at the appropriate areas. "They also tend to be more fragile than their male counterparts, yet they are no less dangerous.

"But, aside from genitalia, internally the two genders are no different." The female faded and the male's skin seemed to turn transparent, allowing the cadets to properly see the muscle groups; that quickly vanished itself to be replaced by the organ system. "Autopsies on captured humans have revealed a great many details that we would have otherwise overlooked. For instance, notice that they have a distinct lack of redundant organs: one heart, one stomach, one liver, one spleen. If one is damaged or rendered inoperable that would spell the end; that also explains why their care for the wounded is so comprehensive and thorough, as they cannot afford the same mistakes we can.

"Here, though, is an interesting contradiction to that system." Using the holograph system, the Magister highlighted an area below the neck where two puffy, pinkish organs resided. "These are average human lungs. Yes, _lungs. _Though smaller than ours, they have _two _lungs instead of our one. That means that, conceivably, they can survive if one is punctured or destroyed." Oriné's interest suddenly peaked: humans seemed as if they teetered on the edge of oblivion with every step. Sangheili had two hearts, three stomachs, and two organs acting as a liver. The lung difference was certainly an oddity, yet it seemed like they hardly needed to exterminate them at all: they could just wait for their metabolisms to make an inevitable, critical mistake and end them that way.

His thoughts were interrupted when Yarna had a question. "Magister, what is the most effective way to kill a human?"

"A shot to the head, as with every other species, is the most effective," 'Alsakee said, "but severing the spine at the neck or piercing the heart will do as well. Those are quick deaths, however; slower would be to target the abdominal area as it is highly likely that you will hit a vital organ."

The discussion drifted between topics, from the structure of their feet (highly articulated, allowing them to move quickly across difficult terrain even if they weren't stable) to the large lack of hair except for the top of the head and other places (no one had a good explanation). What was slightly shocking, however, was on the genetic level:

"Humans have forty-six chromosomes, twenty-three from each parent," 'Alsakee said, pointing to a double-helix diagram. "Compared to ours, in which we receive sixteen chromosomes from each parent for a total of thirty-two, they have the more advanced DNA. This allows them a greater variation of phenotypes, making them seem more diverse."

Oriné was curious. "Do the humans with more advanced DNA achieve greater status?"

"As far as we can tell, no. No regard is given to genetic disposition." That was something of a surprise to the Sangheili in the room, who were used to thinking that the humans were some kind of vicious savage. The fact that they paid no attention to one's genetic profile meant that, most likely, promotions and advances were made based on individual skill and merit; in that regard they weren't so different from themselves.

His father's words returned to him: _know you face equals on the field of battle_.


	5. Rank Two

Chapter 5: Rank Two

Oriné 'Fulsamee inhaled deeply, allowing the fumes of the incense to fill his lungs. He kneeled before the altar at the Temple, one of the smaller, private ones for personal communion with the Gods. The smoke made his eyelids heavy and he allowed them to fall shut: elimination of the visual world helped the experience.

A little more than a year he had been here at Institution, long enough for his squad to be promoted to Rank Two. It had happened, literally, overnight roughly a month ago; when they awoke they were directed to more difficult training sessions and more intense studies. They were quizzed more, tested more, tried more; battles were no longer conducted within the squad but always against other squads, spot-examinations by the Lesser Prophets done in groups, knowledge expected to be recalled immediately and without pause.

The Elite Junior sighed out the smoke. It was incredibly difficult, but these meditation sessions helped him relax. The heaviness of the fumes filled his being and weighed him down physically yet allowed his mind to soar. It was as if he departed this plane entirely and was given his first view of the Great Journey; truly a worthy experience. He allowed his eyelids to sag closed and the smoke to take him away.

A chime rang in his ear, and he casually allowed his mind to pull itself away from the relaxing environment of the temple. He reached a hand up and brushed a finger over one of the acknowledgement pads, allowing the transmission through: "Elite Junior Oriné 'Fulsamee," it began; Oriné moved his mandibles in a perfect mimicry of the speech, "First Battalion, Reverent Company, Squadron Twenty-two; your squadron will be conducting a combat exercise in the Hall of Glory shortly."

He rose off his knees, rotating the joints to make sure he hadn't accidentally knotted a muscle. Once he was content he strode out of the temple and into the courtyard. Decorative vegetation had been planted around, carefully tended to so the path was clear but at a whim he could reach out and pick a blossom from a bush. He refrained, however, and contented himself just finding the gravity lift. As he approached he brought up his wrist and programmed his destination before he stepped into the shaft of light; once before he had forgotten this crucial step, and the resulting collision had put himself and the unfortunate passer-by in the infirmary for a week.

The gravity lift deposited him on the proper floor and he maneuvered his way to the Hall of Glory. There were sixteen such halls in these levels, each supporting a massive combat arena. When he had been Rank Three, small rooms were given to the cadets in order to conduct exercises within their own squad; now much larger ones were needed for the much larger battles that took place.

Stepping into the Hall, Oriné recalled immediately that Glory was for forest terrain battles. The trees towered over a floor covered in dead and decaying plant life from which smaller shrubs grew. The battle hadn't started yet, so he traipsed through the arena and searched for his squadron.

They had collected themselves in the center clearing, twenty-five already there. Oriné stood and conversed in low tones with them until the remainder arrived, followed by an Elite Major. The Sangheili present dimly remembered him from their first day.

"Today's exercise is of the greatest importance," the Major said to the assembled cadets. "You will prove your worth working with the other races; scattered throughout this forest are twenty Grunt clutches and two Hunter pairs. If you recover them, you may lead them; if your opponents recover them, they shall belong to _them_." There was a sense of conviction behind the Major's words, one that betrayed a deeper meaning; Oriné couldn't decipher the message behind it.

He reviewed their armaments next: standard training rifles and pistols, as well as training grenades. The firearms were familiar by now, Oriné having toted them through countless training exercises and learned all their quirks. He had even trained with their genuine counterparts at the firing range. However, the grenades were something he rarely used. They could stick to opponents, but Oriné had hardly utilized them: they made him uneasy. On the battlefield, if one held on to a grenade for too long it would fuse to one's hand and detonate. He would rather never touch them.

The Major exited the arena, and shortly thereafter the exercise began. Olah 'Seroumee acted quickly, not wishing to fall behind their opponents, whoever they might have been. "First and fourth lances, I want you to move forward until you come into contact with the enemy, and from there establish our front line." Those Elites saluted and took off at a brisk jog towards the other side of the Hall where their opponents would have started. "Second lance, you are to move backwards and secure our rear and flanks. See if perhaps the good Major left a few tricks for us to take advantage of." They disappeared as well. "Fifth lance, sweep through our territories and look for those Grunt clutches and Hunter pairs. We'll need their assistance."

Only the third lance, of which Oriné was a part, was left behind. "What of us, Olah?" he asked. The squadron leader glanced back at him.

"We shall make a pre-emptive strike against our opponents, find out what we are facing," he replied, drawing his rifle. "We will push past the first and fourth lances and conduct reconnaissance." The others all nodded and took up their own weapons, sprinting forward as their commander did so. They nimbly bounded between the trunks of the trees, signaling to the other lances as they passed, and went onward. Quickly, however, they switched tactics and favored silence over speed; they did not know when they would encounter their enemy. They crouched low to the ground, their green armor giving them a slight semblance of camouflage in the foliage of the artificial forest. When it came time for them to actually be in battle against the humans, their armor would have active camouflage units in them. Turning them on would deactivate their shields (which they would have as well) but would lend them an extra air of stealth.

After what seemed like a full day of sneaking they heard sounds up ahead. All ten Elites froze; Olah waved Oriné and another forward. "Scout them and see what resources they have," he whispered to them. They nodded and continued forward. Reaching up and carefully parting the branches of a bush the pair found themselves gazing directly into the face of their enemy. It was simian with massive tusks, a heavy brow, and small eyes that glared at them.

For a moment they stared dumbfounded at each other, but then the Brute smiled at them. "Have you forgotten how to scream, hatchling?" it chided. In response, Oriné smoothly raised his rifle and held down the trigger. The weapon bucked and sounded, but no plasma genuinely burst forth; the Brute, however, spasmed and fell back, his training harness detecting the impacts and delivering the proper neural response. He did not even cry out as he tumbled back and landed in the dirt. As his form fell away, however, the pair could see that several of the beast's comrades had been watching their scout.

"Fire!" one of the Jiralhanae warriors cried, and they all raised their own training rifles. Oriné pushed his companion down and then went prone himself; the sound of return fire filled his ears, but his armor wasn't registering any hits.

"Olah!" he called back, raising his head enough to be able to turn his neck. "We've found them! They're Brutes!" He could not hear a response, but from the distant shouts from the enemy they had decided to close the distance. Oriné and his companion quickly rose and dashed back to where Olah was still waiting.

The squadron commander glanced them over. "Any damage?"

"We took out one of them, but the rest are still there and they're coming."

"Lay a trap!" Olah called out, motioning for all the Elites to go prone in the low shrubs. "Hold until they approach and then use grenades to thin their ranks. Throw them high so the trajectory will make them think we're attacking from elsewhere." They quickly set about setting up the trap, burying themselves as much as they could in the low brush and hoping their armor color would assist their camouflage attempts. In their hearts the Elites felt no honor in this action, in not meeting their opponent head-on; however, in their minds they knew this was much wiser.

Heavy footfalls, gunfire, and shouting voices heralded their opponents' arrival. The brush tore away as several Jiralhanae rushed through and bounded at them; none seemed to notice the warriors lying in wait. As their enemies closed the distance, the Elites unhooked grenades from their belts, gave them a squeeze, and sent them flying. The orbs pulsed blue and landed on or among the opposing forces, flaring brilliant sapphire as they "detonated" and almost all of the Brutes fell to the ground, twitching or completely still. The few that survived were quickly gunned down as Sangheili leaped up from cover.

Oriné and Olah inspected the fallen Brutes, policing rifles and grenades. "Everyone takes a spare," the commander ordered. "We don't know if we should need them soon." As they staked out their claims, as well as trophies from the combat, Olah raised a hand to his helmet and activated the team radio line.

"Attention all lances," he said firmly, "we have identified our opponents as the Jiralhanae. Use caution when engaging. Fifth lance, what news of our allies?"

"Affirmative," one of the Elites replied. "We have located two Grunt clutches, and they are leading us to where they believe a Hunter pair to be. According to them, there are a total of two pairs and three clutches."

"Seize that pair and we'll have the advantage we need in order to end this quickly," Olah said, and then turned his attention back to his own lance. "We will fall back to where first and fourth lances are forming the front line and hold there. Once we get reinforced by the other lances and our new allies, we will press forward and wipe out these Brutes.

"No ape shall stand in a Sangheili's way."

* * *

Bruised, Yarna 'Orgalmee eased himself onto the bench in the mess hall area. Rtas 'Vadumee, sitting across from him, looked up and cocked his head quizzically. The other cadet could only smile sheepishly.

"We had our first engagement with the Jiralhanae today," he said.

Rtas guffawed, setting his plate of kashalai down. "Ah yes, my squadron had its own encounter a week ago. Fierce warriors; not very bright, but determined."

Yarna looked at his own food: a "fruit platter," though the term seemed inaccurate. "Be careful, friend, you almost sound like you respect them."

"The day a walking carpet can best a Sangheili is the day I walk out of the Covenant," he replied, once again taking up his meal. He titled his head back and poured the roasted, honeyed worms down his gullet. "How did you fare?" The question thankfully came after he finished.

"As a unit, we did very well. We made the first move and were able to secure two Grunt clutches and the Hunter pair. The Brutes didn't manage to find any Grunts until far too late."

"And you personally?"

Yarna picked up a piece of fruit and gave it a tentative sniff. "I was killed towards the end. I became too bold and tried to lead a few Grunts in a charge at what I thought was a weakened part of their line. They struck me with a grenade and killed my entire group." He tore off a bit and ate it with caution. "One of the Hunters avenged me, though."

Rtas had another go at his kashalai. "They are noble and honorable... though I would never wish to spend time alone with one."

Yarna nodded, and then glanced around, having just noticed something for the first time. Present in the mess hall were many Sangheili, Unggoy, and Jiralhanae, but... "Why do the Lekgolo not eat with us?"

His companion frowned at him. "The chefs do not cater to their preferred nourishment."

"What, they cannot catch it?"

"No. The Lekgolo do not eat meat."

Yarna blanched; Rtas took amusement at the other's ignorance. "You know they are a colony of eels, correct? Good. Now these eels are herbivores, and even though they have bonded together to create a humanoid form, they still have the needs of individuals. To eat, they dispose of their armor and slither along the grass in the Temple areas, like so." He put his palm half a centimeter over the surface of the table and moved it back and forth to emphasize his point. "When they do this, the eels are grazing on the grass. They rotate as they do this so all eels on the surface have the opportunity to eat; eels in the middle also push their way to the outside for nourishment." He smiled at some memory. "The grazing of Lekgolo is truly an impressive sight; perhaps some day you will be able to witness it yourself."

"Oh," Yarna said, and trailed off. He glared at his food; he suspected it was tainted. "I will say this, though; their teamwork is impeccable. Though the death of a Bond Brother would be troubling, as long as both are alive I see no stopping the carnage." Another thought stopped his praise. "Tell me: do they mate?"

"Of course."

"Oh. I have never seen a Lekgolo female."

"There are none. The Lekgolo are hermaphroditic, their Bond Brothers essentially becoming their mates and... where are you going?"

That was too much. Yarna excused himself and tossed his food in a trash container, plate and all.

* * *

Yarna settled himself onto his knees in the lecture room. Magister 'Alsakee strode to the front, cleared his throat, and began warming up the hologram projector.

"Today," he started, fiddling with the controls, "we discuss the mating habits of the Unggoy, Yanme'e, and Lekgolo."

Suddenly Yarna wished the Brute had killed him for real.

* * *

Several Elite Juniors stood at fast attention in the massive hallway just outside one of the shuttle bays. It was _incredibly _early, Oriné knew, and by looking at his comrades he could tell they were all in various states of alertness. His squad having been in the middle of a sleep cycle, the Major who came to get him had to shake him awake and fend off his weary-minded blows and curses. A few other Sangheili had the same look about them, while others must have just fallen asleep or had been on the verge of waking up already; yet the majority was wide awake and alert. Shaking the cobwebs from his mind he counted twenty-five other cadets present.

With dismay he realized he didn't recognize any of them.

The Major began pacing back and forth along the line of Elite Juniors. "You have been selected for an honorable task," he began, turning his head so he could look each one in the eyes as he spoke. "You have been chosen, neither because you are the best of your squadrons nor because you are fantastically good at combat. In order to receive this assignment, you must show proficiency, certainly, but also _amiable _qualities." Oriné noted the distaste in the Major's tone but gave no sign; he had become better at hiding his internal thoughts and feelings.

"Your assignment is an escort duty, but it is very important and shall tell much about your prowess with dignitaries. Each of you will be assigned to be the escort of a vestar as she visits, and after she completes her week-long work here, you will together travel back to High Charity and you will assist her in whatever endeavors she may ask of you for the period of one additional week." A vestar, Oriné recalled, was a young priestess-in-training; a strike of excitement touched his heart as he thought that, perhaps, he would get to see his twin sister again. He had not laid eyes upon his family since his departure from Sanghelios.

The Major ceased his pacing at the exact middle of the line; Oriné was only a few Sangheili to the left. "You are expected to be kind and courteous, as these are the future clerics of the Covenant." He resumed his pace, outlining behavior protocols and resulting punishments for subsequent violations. Oriné could not ignore his fantasy: meeting his sister again, being able to show her around and demonstrate his skills, just spending time with her again...

After he finished his explanation, the elder Sangheili marched over to one of the large doors and keyed it open, allowing twenty-six young Sangheili females to enter the hallway. They congregated in a tight group, not in any sort of formation; while his companions snorted in disdain Oriné's eyes rapidly darted over the group, searching for his sister. He couldn't see her.

_Foolish, _he chided himself. Of course Fulsa wouldn't be here; why would she have been selected? His previous dream of showing off his prowess suddenly turned bitter, and he closed his eyes and mentally recited a forgiveness prayer.

The Elites were then assigned to their charges. "Oriné 'Fulsamee," the Major said when it was his turn, "this is your charge, Ekla." He motioned towards a vestar fully a head shorter than the Elite Junior. She wore the draping priestess-in-training robes that Fulsa had been wearing when he returned from Jisako, but while they indeed looked humble they did nothing to hide the curving form of her body. Oriné maintained a look of stoic composure.

The Major leaned in close. "Take _especially _good care of her," he hissed in his ear, and then retreated, assigning the next cadet. Wondering what he meant by that, Oriné took a step forward and bowed respectfully.

"I am Oriné 'Fulsamee, Elite Junior Rank Two," he said, looking up at his charge. Her skin was soft and looked supple, not at all like the hardened, leathery hides of all the Sangheili in Institution. Then again, she was a female. They had no place among warriors; they were too beautiful and fragile to risk damaging through combat.

A look of stolid amusement crossed her face. She gave her own half-bow in response. "I am Ekla. It is nice to meet you, Oriné 'Fulsamee." He righted himself, and an awkward pause ensued.

"Where..." he started, stopped, and then reconsidered: "Where would you like to go, priestess?"

She smiled, though it lacked mirth. "I am not yet a priestess, _warrior, _only a vestar. I have not earned that honor yet."

Oriné chuckled. "Nor am I a warrior."

"To answer your question," she hummed, placing a long slender finger on the tip of one mandible, "while I am weary from my journey I would very much love something to eat before I retire."

"As you wish." The Elite Junior nodded and led Ekla out of the hallway and towards the mess hall. The trip was mostly quiet and uneventful except for when the vestar asked questions about her new surroundings; Oriné answered in a manner she hoped would find satisfactory, yet their conversations always fell short.

When they did arrive, Oriné was only marginally surprised to find the mess hall still busy. He knew that they were open every hour of every day, but had never experienced it; at this time his unit was supposed to be in its sleep cycle.

_What shall I do? _He wondered with a fleeting sense of dread. _How will I conduct my studies and play escort to Ekla? _Eventually he decided that it would have to work out one way or another; it was beyond his power to try and influence it. Instead he outlined the chefs' somewhat limited selection of foodstuffs, letting the vestar choose her own meal. As they sat down at an empty table, Oriné tried again to make small talk.

"How was your trip over here?" he asked.

Ekla put down her plate. "Boring and slow," she said. "We took the ship _Destitute Conquest _from High Charity, and—"

"Wait," Oriné cut in. It was incredibly rude to interrupt a priestess, but he had to know. "Are you sure it was the _Destitute Conquest_?"

"Yes," she replied guardedly.

"That used to be my father's command! Well, it was until he retired."

"Really?" she asked; unexpectedly she seemed genuinely interested. "Your father was a Ship Master for the armada?"

"A Ship Commander, really, but because of the Ship Master's alcohol problems he ended up commanding the ship more often than not. He commanded it for the battle above the Jiralhanae home world."

She smiled and listened now to his stories about his father, and he noticed that for the first time there actually seemed to be warmth coming from her. He hadn't been sure what she had felt earlier, but now he was certain that he had captured her attention. _So she likes combat, then? How unusual for a priestess._

Halfway through a story about one of their father-son duels a Jiralhanae walked by, roughly jostling Oriné's seat. He turned and scowled but resumed his story, unwilling to allow a hairy beast to interrupt him. The Brute, however, merely circled around the table and delivered a strong kick to the bench Ekla had seated herself on. The shift was great enough to throw her off, though she regained her footing before falling to the floor.

These actions had been intended to push around the two Sangheili for the stories about the Brutes' subjugation into the Covenant; however, while Jiralhanae society allowed the inclusion of females in all physical trials, in Sangheili society the men protected the women from any sort of harm. Thusly the Brute in question was quite surprised to find himself knocked to the ground hardly a full second after he had knocked the vestar from her seat. He barked in alarm, alerting all nearby Jiralhanae to his plight.

Oriné realized his mistake: there were several Brutes nearby, now advancing towards him, and most of the Elites present were enough of a distance off to hardly notice the commotion. His first instinct was to fight his way out of the crowd, but he suddenly remembered Ekla. Upon turning to her, he saw that she was glancing around, nervousness with a tint of fear playing across her delicate features.

He had to protect her.

The first Brute charged forward; Oriné simply side-stepped and swung out his own leg, tripping up the beast and sending it skidding into several nearby tables and creating quite a din. Another two advanced, slightly more cautious, and swung at him. The Sangheili ducked and weaved between their blows, seizing one's arm as it passed within an inch of his head and using the momentum to flip it over his shoulder. While he did that, though, the other got behind him and grabbed him by the shoulders, holding him still except for his feet. More came forward, the first two fended off by his legs, but a third got through and delivered a rough punch to Oriné's gut.

The pain blossomed in his vision as another fist connected with his torso, and Oriné realized that he had gotten in over his head. _Honor must be defended, but this is a ridiculously futile gesture. _Spots swam in his vision as he was released; he tumbled to his knees before a foot connected with his sternum and sent him sliding. When he came to a stop, he expected more beatings while he was prone, yet they never arrived. After a moment several shouts and crashes rang through his head; forcing himself up onto his elbows he saw several of his emerald-armored comrades engaging his attackers in hand-to-hand combat.

A moment later, one of them ran to him after smashing a Jiralhanae in the face with his elbow, the vestar following closely behind. They knelt by Oriné's side and inspected his wounds; after determining him not to be too serious they both lifted him up by his shoulders and carried him out of the mess hall into the hallway.

"I am able to walk," he finally managed, and waved them away. He staggered a bit but found his balance. He nodded his thanks to the Elite Junior, whom a moment later turned and went back inside to help finish off the Brute troublemakers.

The wounded Sangheili turned to his charge. "I hope I have not ruined the experience of Institution for you, priestess."

"I rather enjoyed it, warrior," she returned slyly and put a hand on his shoulder, giving it a light squeeze.

* * *

The arrangements had been made, Oriné learned, for himself to continue his studies while learning how to protect the vestar. It gradually became known to him the reason for this charge: he was being taught how to protect a vital objective, though after the fiasco with the Brutes it had occasionally turned to physical protection as well. The Jiralhanae did not forget their grudges, nor did they ever wish to settle them honorably.

Oriné, however, stayed on top of things: his rather personal encounter had taught him a great deal. Even if they weren't clever, the Brutes could overpower him in a straight-on fight if he wasn't careful. In all combat exercises he now exerted prudence, commanding his Grunts conservatively. His fistfights when not in combat practice escalated as well, and he had to admit to himself that he often sought them out. Ekla had asked if he would be disciplined for his actions.

"No," he had replied, "this is Institution. They encourage fighting; it builds character and camaraderie." It did not, however, build camaraderie. The Sangheili who were involved in the fistfights did indeed feel close during the fight, but it created a rift between themselves and the Jiralhanae. One of the Minors who served at Institution told Oriné one day that even when he had been attending the fights were common.

That at least gave the Elite Junior some peace of mind.

Regardless, it so turned out that the vestar had little to do at Institution: her group had been selected to come and inspect the grounds, making sure that it had not become a vile pit of heresy. When Oriné pointed out that the space station had a full order of the Coven dedicated to its spiritual upkeep, he received a venomous look for his astuteness.

So it came down, often, to Oriné having an audience during combat exercises. An observation deck was placed high in the Halls, usually reserved for supervisors but they allowed the young priestess in out of respect and amusement. Though he knew it would only lead to more trouble he often performed showy maneuvers in vehicle training and became slightly bolder during infantry practice; he outright showed off in dueling to the point that his squad mates complained of his constant flourishes and dramatic finishes. Olah 'Seroumee was always there to reeducate him in humility whenever he got well and truly out of hand.

During Knowledge lectures Ekla excused herself, finding them to be boring. That was fine by Oriné, who allowed himself to become immersed in the study of the humans. Once Magister 'Alsakee noted his determination and openly questioned him about it; without missing a beat, the Elite Junior replied that it was proven that knowing one's enemy could expose a quick path to victory. The Magister had replied with a kind smile.

"Oriné," he said afterwards, ushering the Sangheili aside while his squad mates filed out, "you have shown amazing prowess at learning details about other races, especially the humans. Have you ever considered applying your skill to the Forerunner and becoming one of the Elite Inquisitors?" The Inquisitors were a special branch of the Covenant armed forces, dropped onto planets that held Forerunner complexes to discern their meaning, decode any glyphic messages, and retrieve any artifacts they found. More often than not they were deployed on the front lines on human worlds, advancing towards known Forerunner structures; that way they were sure to be able to finish their job sooner.

The thought did not excite the Elite at all. Long nights spent hunkered over a piece of stone, trying to unlock some sort of hidden meaning, did not appeal to him. He dreamed of spending his nights resting for days full of combat, warfare, and glory. "I have, Magister; but the Forerunner have blessed me with a soldier's heart, and though my mind is scholarly I must follow the core of my being, even into battle." 'Alsakee clicked his mandibles, the equivalent of a shrug, and said his farewell. They did not speak on the matter again.

In Faith, however, Ekla soared. She gained favor among the Lesser Prophets instructing Squadron Twenty-two and for that received scorn from Oriné's brothers-in-arms. She herself often picked students at random and demanded from them some obscure piece of information or line of scripture; if they could not summon it from memory they were reprimanded, something that seemed to bring the young vestar no end of amusement.

"It is a good thing your woman does not sleep among us," one of the other cadets growled to Oriné one day, "otherwise we might be tempted to throttle her in her sleep."

Oriné had been quick to point out that he and Ekla were not courting, but the observation about arrangements had been true enough. As she was a vestar, a dignitary, and a female, she had been forbidden from even going near the sleeping quarters of the warriors-in-training. Such would be seen as not only a blasphemy but also as a definite hazard. Sleeping quarters was a place of rough-and-tumble males, not the lithe and beautiful females expected to spend their days in glory. Rather she was given a special room in the Visitors' Dormitory, not a stone's throw from where the Lesser Prophets themselves slept. Off of her main chamber was a small washroom, a bathing pool, a closet for her priestly garments, and a smaller apartment where her escort was to sleep so he would always be nearby. At first it was mandated that the door between remain shut, but Ekla insisted on leaving it open.

"So that, should I cry out in the night, Oriné can come right to my side," she had explained to the Prophets with a sly grin.

For the first few mornings meals had been brought to Ekla's chambers, but she dismissed them and ate in the cafeteria instead. She liked to listen to the stories of combat and battlefield prowess, laughing at the jokes regarding weapons, instructors, and Jiralhanae. At first the Sangheili were uneasy, but when she expressed her preference of soldiers and combat to life in the convent they seemed to welcome her to their tables.

* * *

The week ended.

Oriné stood at parade rest in one of Institution's shuttle bays, hands clasped behind the small of his back, eyes staring front. The Phantom shuttle had just entered the bay and was making landing preparations. His eyes watched the craft adjust itself and settle to the floor, the rear hatch sliding open to allow access. All around were the other vestars and Elite Juniors who had been given the same assignment.

At his side was Ekla, considerably less rigid. She touched his elbow lightly and smiled; he glanced down and twitched a mandible, the closest thing to a smile he could manage there. They had grown close over a week of constant exposure to each other; that had been the expected result, that or detestation. Both results were apparent in the relationship between each vestar and Elite, but no signs could be displayed. The next level up housed Sangheili officers watching and judging the Elite Juniors' performances.

From within the shuttle came an Elite Minor. He glanced around, doing a head-count in his head, and then nodded. "You may now board," he called out. The crowd moved forward, squeezing into the Phantom. Within was a slight modification: there were padded chairs fastened to the wall for the vestars to sit in; next to them were magnetic locks for the Elite Juniors. Each took his place beside his charge.

The Elite Minor walked back in and crossed the troop bay. "We will be leaving immediately for the _Destitute Conquest, _which will take us to High Charity." He paused at the door to the cockpit and glanced over his shoulder, a smirk growing across his mandibles. "Be on your best behavior, now." With that he vanished into the forward section.

Ekla lightly poked him in the arm, and he turned and smiled.


	6. The Holy City

**Author's Note: Sorry about the wait. I'm glad some people like this story enough to demand updates, and I thank everyone for their patience. As you can see, this is the longest chapter I've written, and hopefully it'll set an example for chapters to come.**

Chapter 6: The Holy City

From the deck of the _Conquest, _Oriné 'Fulsamee got his first look at High Charity; that first moment took his breath away. The massive station had stopped over to recharge its Slipspace generators in open space, but even without a planetary backdrop its splendor was unparalleled. It was half a planet with a massively large "spike" of additional decks, shipyards, and storage areas hanging from the "bottom," though in space that was arbitrary. Regardless, the dome of earth and stone was visually impressive, covered by lattices and circles of pale blue light caused by exposed plating. At the top of the dome was an opening, covered by a transparent energy shield that could allow the legendary Forerunner ship that powered the city to exit in case of battle. The spike on the bottom glittered with the same color where plasma coils shone through. Surrounding the massive shape were hundreds, _thousands _of pinpricks of light, the Fleets of Homogenous Clarity running defense for the Holy City, intercepting drifting asteroids and other pieces of debris before they could impact the magnificent space fortress. Undoubtedly there would be little physical evidence of such a collision nor any indicator for the residents within, but the shame of such a slip would be immense for any Ship Master, perhaps enough to warrant death.

The Elite Junior continued to stare slack-jawed at it for a while. Alone, High Charity housed a great number of Covenant soldiers and warriors; more than half of those who served the Holy Union could claim that they had been born and raised within its hallowed walls. The large dome was hollow and within was a massive city, so large as to boggle the mind; that wasn't even counting the apartments built into the walls for several floors. That was the main habitation area. Below it, in the spike, were all the military zones: shipyards, armories, tactical command centers, docking bays, and engineering laboratories were present all up and down the several hundred stories construct.

Ekla was by his side, watching his shocked expression with her own look of amusement. "Come on," she teased him, "Institution is about as big as High Charity, and in the same shape; merely inverted."

"Yes," he conceded, still not taking his eyes off the city, "but this is High Charity; if the rumors are to be believed, created from the ruins of the Prophets' home world, the mobile beating heart of the Holy Union of the Covenant. It is not a simple school."

"The convent _is _based here," she reminded him, "which is where we teach Sangheili to be priestesses and Clerics of the order, so in a few ways it _is _a school." She sighed and stole a glance out the window. "I'm afraid being born here takes much of the splendor away from it. We'll be inside soon enough."

As it were, it took an additional three hours for the _Destitute Conquest_ to clear its security and verify its identity before they were able to dock. No going down in a Phantom this time; it instead fixed itself to the spike, the ship directly linking up with High Charity. Ekla and Oriné left via gravity lift, the former dressed in her vestar finery and the latter in his emerald armor, carrying her trunks and belongings. Two Elite Minors overseeing the movement of supplies to and from the cruiser stopped to laugh at Oriné's current station and swap quick stories with each other about their experiences at Institution.

The pair made their way to the central gravity lift of High Charity, a massive column of purple light that ferried people up and down the spike as well as into the lower levels of the dome through the use of individual "gravity eddies." Aside from a quick stop for Oriné to check in that he had arrived with his charge they made their way right for the dome.

"Shall I carry your things to your quarters?" he asked, dreading the answer.

"That won't be necessary," she replied. "There is an entourage waiting for my arrival; they will carry my things." She turned and smiled at him. "You will only need to look like a handsome escort, though that will hardly be a challenge for you." Oriné blushed slightly, but tried to keep the blood from his face. He needed to appear a warrior.

Upon their arrival, however, he couldn't help but blanch. Ten slave Unggoy were waiting, as well as two Sangheili females dressed in humble robes. Behind them was a modified Chimera. They were standard civilian vehicles, usually possessing a driver seat, a passenger seat and a compartment in the back; sometimes two extra seats could be included in place of the storage. Yet this one was elongated, with a single driver seat in the front, three passenger seats in a vaguely reverse-delta shape behind it, and a very large open compartment in the back. Vehicles of any type were fairly expensive, but such a modification must have cost a great deal of money to buy.

Ekla caught him staring again. "Does everything in this city cause you to gape so?" She giggled. "I am not a Sangheili of humble origins. My family is quite wealthy. This Chimera is mine, though I am not yet permitted to drive it." He could hardly believe what he was hearing, but he forced a look of composure back onto his face. Together they approached the waiting crowd; immediately the Unggoy rushed forward to take the things from Oriné and place them in the compartment. The two Sangheili approached as well, but they moved towards the vestar. Per his training, Oriné stepped closer, placing himself almost directly between his charge and the approaching women.

They both looked quite perturbed by his presence. "My lady..." one of them began.

"He is only doing his job," she said, the smile gone. She turned to him. "It is fine, Oriné; they have been my servants for a great time. I trust them." He nodded and stepped back, but stayed close; they eyed him cautiously.

"My lady," the other began, "it is good to see you again. I trust these..." she stole a glance at the emerald-armored Sangheili again, "... _ruffians _did not bother you too much?"

At this the vestar laughed, but it was forced; Oriné could tell. "They were all quite kind. Perhaps not as gentlemanly as this one here, but very kind."

The other one stepped forward. "Are you tired, my lady? Would you like to return to the estate and retire?"

"I should like to rest, yes," Ekla replied, "but I will be content returning to my apartment. I do not wish to deal with my mother just yet."

"What about your guardian?"

"He must remain with me at all times."

"Then I shall prepare the guest room in your apartment."

With that the group departed. The Unggoy piled into the rear compartment with the cargo and settled themselves in, binding themselves down with cargo netting so they didn't accidentally fall out. From what Ekla would later tell him, Oriné surmised that it was a common happenstance. The Sangheili stayed in the front; one of Ekla's servant maidens drove while the other rode in the back with the vestar and Elite Junior. At first she had insisted on sitting between them, but when the younger female pointed out she would be more exposed to harm (and Oriné confirmed it) the maiden sat on the left side, the middle occupied by Ekla and the right by Oriné.

After a while of riding through the city, the Elite Junior turned to Ekla. "How is it that you have your own apartment if your family has an estate here in the city?"

"My father arranged for it, at my mother's behest," she replied. "He believed it would help me develop a sense of independence, and it has. I walk to the convent from it, and I get fresh air and some exposure to the culture of our Holy City." She smiled a bit. "It's quite an interesting place, High Charity. I'm sure you'll come to understand."

From what he saw as he drove, the city wasn't interesting; it was _magnificent. _As soon as they exited the tunnels and moved up several ramps they were in the main dome. The walls stretched up and up until they began to become obscured by fog, the apex barely visible as a softly glowing circle of light. The city itself stretched for hundreds of miles, and in the dead center was the towering Forerunner ship. It looked like a titanic tripod that united into a single fin reaching about halfway from the base of the city to the top; that was about twenty miles.

Once they entered the main causeway Oriné could gaze on the people directly. They passed quickly but from each still image his eyes managed to catch there was rich interaction between the species living there. And there were more species in the Holy City than Oriné had seen at either Institution or on Sanghelios.

The ride was an hour long, and throughout he and Ekla talked for small pieces; but the Elite Junior could feel her maidens glaring at him, as if they were willing his hearts to just stop beating and for him to fall down and die.

* * *

The apartment was four rooms: a master bedroom, where Ekla slept; a smaller guest room the size of a closet, where Oriné was confined; a massive commons room with lush furniture and a curved bay window looking out over High Charity's lower districts; and a bath full of steaming hot water night and day.

Oriné was most captivated with the view from the window, however; far below the sweeping streets of High Charity spread out in a random criss-cross of lines and lights. Towers ringed the entire dome, dozens of them, with both gravity and tactile bridges running between them. Right at the base of the towers was where the nobility stayed, Sangheili who played an important role in the Covenant, their slaves and servants, Lesser Prophets, and some Jiralhanae too. There was a limited presence of shops and markets, but by and large it was composed of residences. It made sense that Ekla would live here, since her mother was a high priestess in the coven and her father...

He frowned. What did her father do? He hadn't asked.

Inward of the nobility district were the "lower districts," though topographically higher up than the nobility district as the floor of High Charity rose ever so slightly towards the center. It was a visible slope but when they had been driving the young Elite Junior had hardly noticed it. Regardless, the lower districts were the locations of shops, bazaars, entertainments, and the homes of the lesser castes: Unggoy, Kig-Yar, Lekgolo, and less-celebrated Sangheili and Jiralhanae.

Surrounding the great Forerunner ship, however, was the temple district. They were self-described as "humble," but even from the distance of the apartment window Oriné could make out the great winding spires of the Grand Pagoda of Fasul.

"Impressed?" Ekla came up behind him and lightly put a hand on his elbow. Oriné looked down at her and nodded. Behind them the Unggoy were returning her things to where they had been prior to her departure to Institution, clumsily moving in and out of the commons room, hobbling between furniture to replace a cushion or keepsake to its rightful place. Her two servant maidens were busy themselves: one was preparing the guest room while the other was glaring daggers at him. He had to admit to himself that he deserved it; Ekla was being very close and... _personal _with him.

Oriné quickly returned his gaze to the city beyond the window. "Yes, I am," he replied. "It is so vast and full of life, culture, history..." His eyes went out of focus as daydreams took him. Walking the causeways, perhaps renting an Eidolon and seeing how much he could experience in one day. There were undoubtedly shops without equal, sights that could only be experienced here. Somewhere out there, either among the temples or towers, was the Step of Silence. Shards of glass hung there, suspended in a gravity field, each from a human world that had been cleansed. Tradition dictated that pilgrimage be made every time another was burned, yet the sheer number of planets being destroyed and the distance to High Charity made it quite impractical. Most settled for watching holograms of the event and saying a prayer in the comfort of their own homes.

"You may go and experience the city now." Ekla interrupted his thoughts. "My maidens have... _politely _requested that you take leave for a short while to allow them to properly clean." She smiled when he met her eyes. "Don't go far."

Technically he wasn't permitted to leave her side; despite the beauty of the city itself Oriné was aware of the changing political climate. Assassinations were becoming more frequent, heresy and dissent beginning to boil up. Yet his curiosity and eagerness about High Charity, coupled with the servant maidens' eagerness to get him out of the apartment, temporarily overrode his orders and he allowed himself a quick break.

_I will return soon, _he consoled himself as he stepped into the gravity lift on the balcony, descending to street level and beginning his wanderings. In the back of his mind, as he weaved through the small streets and alleys, he memorized his travels and way back to the apartment.

The forefront of Oriné's mind, however, was on the city. He quickly lost himself in the sights and smells of a small market, though when compared to the markets in Lomak it may as well have been a full-blown bazaar. From cart to storefront he wandered, gazing at intricate trinkets one minute and sampling exotic delights the next. What captured his attention the most were items recovered from human ships. Kig-Yar pirates had taken a shine to raiding human civilian and military craft as of late, and though the Prophets didn't particularly approve of the action they made no personal effort whatsoever to halt it. As a result more and more pieces of human technology and culture found themselves into the homes of collectors and scholars. Oriné found himself drawn to a human tome, bound in plastic with human cryptography printed neatly on both covers and on every page. He could not understand it, but perhaps someday he would.

The vendor, a Kig-Yar himself, was visually nervous with the Elite Junior's presence; the military tended to crack down on pirates, and it was almost certain that this creature had been the one who pilfered most of the paraphernalia displayed on the cart. Oriné, despite his armor, had no desire to report a possible outlet of human-related devices.

"It is a fine choice, Excellency," the vendor said in Kiggarli, "certainly a prized possession to its previous owner and it will make an excellent addition to your collection."

"I have no such collection," Oriné replied in the Covenant tongue. Both the Kig-Yar and Lekgolo, due to their unique oral anatomy, were physically unable to speak the common language; the inability went both ways, with the other client races unable to speak Kiggarli or the curious Gol. However, with the exception of the Unggoy native language, all species were trained to understand one another. In the case of the Sangheili, Jiralhanae, Unggoy, and Prophets, they all spoke the Covenant standard tongue.

"Then it will make an excellent start." The vendor removed the appropriate amount of money from Oriné's account and the Sangheili left, deciding that it was time to return to Ekla's apartment. By the time he got back the slaves and servant maidens had departed, leaving the vestar sitting on the couch and catching up with the recent goings on by way of holographic news reports. When she saw her protector ascend the gravity lift and alight on her balcony she rose to meet him.

"Welcome back," she said, leading him into the apartment. "Let me show you your guest room." As Oriné had previously observed, it was roughly the size of a closet, ninety percent of the space taken up by the bed, the rest by a small trunk in which to store his armor. He frowned at it, but he had endured far worse on Jisako.

"There is a better place to sleep," Ekla said from behind him, and as he turned to face her she pressed herself up against him, wrapping her arms around his neck. Despite being a head shorter than Oriné she rose up on the tips of her hooves and touched the tips of her mandibles to his. He almost stumbled back out of shock, but her arms kept him in place. Gradually he submitted to the embrace, wrapping his arms around the small of her back and holding her tight.

He slept in her bed.

* * *

It turned out his duties as a protector were quite limited in High Charity, much to Oriné's dismay. The first day after their arrival he and Ekla rose early and departed for the temple district, taking a gravity walkway that moved them exponentially faster than if they had gone on foot. As they got closer the young Elite Junior could see how the buildings became more stylized and grandiose, eventually becoming ridiculously oversized temples.

_Is size truly what impresses the Great Ones? _Oriné didn't risk sharing this observation with the vestar at his side, no matter how affectionate she was. When they neared their destination they moved to the side, being slowed down in relation to the center before finally being able to step off fully. They were in a grand courtyard, one that could put the largest temple in Institution to shame: many pathways surrounded them, weaving between gardens and parks full of color. Mighty trees stretched upwards, branching out and creating vast areas of shade with their broad leaves while small and wiry ones bent over themselves and bore fruit; smaller shrubs clustered around edges of open clearings where priestly Sangheili meditated. Not too far behind him Oriné heard a slithering sound, but he recognized it for what it was: a grazing Lekgolo. He involuntarily shuddered and refused to look; once in the gardens at Institution he had come across one of the feeding creatures. After watching it for a while, he had seen a second one approaching. They bumped into each other and promptly began to mate, despite the strict rules against such behavior, _especially _near the temple. Oriné surmised that there were times when it could not be controlled.

He also surmised that he would never walk through the gardens again.

Presently the couple began their walk through the yard towards the temple where Ekla studied, but they maintained a respectful distance from each other; while there was technically no dishonor in their actions, it was still considered shameful as neither of them were yet distinguished in their fields, or even considered "valid" enough to pursue courtship.

"This place is beautiful," Oriné said.

Ekla hummed her agreement. "It gets a little old after a while, but there is still a charm to it." They passed an avenue and Oriné spared a glance, but immediately wished he hadn't. A pack of Jiralhanae stood in the shadows, laughing, doubtlessly over some crass joke. One looked up and met his eyes; the Elite Junior scowled and the creature returned it. Had it been Institution, obscene gestures and fighting would have quickly followed, but rudeness in a holy place would have been considered heresy and fisticuffs would have quickly been broken up by the Honor Guards that hovered all about the grounds.

"There are Brutes here?" he asked the vestar quietly after they had passed.

"Yes," she replied, a frown forming on her own mandibles. "Some act as holy servants, calling themselves Shaman and defiling the Faith with their practices. The Gods only know why the Prophets allow it. The rest serve as temple guardians, supplementing the Honor Guard... though the proper Guards are never comfortable with them, and the Jiralhanae rarely offer assistance when called upon."

_Why were they ever allowed in? _Oriné thought bitterly to himself. _How have they proved their excellence more than the humans?_ He tried to recall what precious Forerunner artifact from their home world the Jiralhanae had presented to the Prophets, yet came up with nothing; meanwhile relics had been discovered on several human planets already, and the location of their home world was still unknown. _It seems like even the humans have greater worth than these beasts._

Finally they arrived at a large one-story building that bore etchings of Forerunner symbols all across its face. A ramp led up to the front entrance lined with Honor Guards standing at rapt attention; as they began ascending, however, an Honor Guard Captain in silver armor stepped from the line and slammed the end of his spear into the ground, barring Oriné's access.

"You are not allowed within this building, child," the captain growled.

Oriné was taken aback, but stood his ground. "I am this vestar's protector, assigned from Institution. It is my duty to guard her at all times."

"You may come to retrieve your charge when she has completed her studies," the captain replied, refusing to budge. Only his mandibles moved. "You may not cross the threshold and enter this holy place. You are forbidden."

"I must—"

The captain lowered the spear until its point was right in Oriné's face. "Your duty ends here. My Honor Guards shall protect her without fail, as they have done since she began her studies. You are not needed. Take your leave, child." The Elite Junior took two steps back, eyeing the weapon fearfully. He had no chance in combat with this Sangheili, and there was something else: lasered into his armor was an Etching of Glory, the highest honor an Elite could earn in battle. Those who gained it were automatically considered for the High Council of Deed and Doctrine, and should they be accepted they needed only to serve the council for five years before being nominated for a seat on the High Council of Masters.

Oriné dreamed of someday earning that honor, but at the moment he was preoccupied by his rejection from the temple. He cast a glance at Ekla, who only sighed sadly and nodded. The Elite Junior straightened, bowed to both the vestar and the captain and muttered an apology; then he left, stepping back on the gravity walkway and heading back into the city.

He could have easily gone back to the apartment, but the encounter with the Honor Guard had shaken him; Oriné opted instead to tour the lower districts. It was bustling with life and color, rapidly overwhelming the Sangheili. He watched as Sangheili children played in the street, joined by Unggoy and Kig-Yar counterparts that had not yet been sensitized to the caste difference; their game was one of war, throwing palm-sized balls of hard light at each other. Many pedestrians stopped to observe the spectacle and comment on individual skill until the Unggoy mothers stepped in, nervous that the projectiles might dislodge the methane breathers in their children's mouths.

Down the street Oriné located a shop that made his hearts leap into his mouth: a Kig-Yar sweets pantry like the one back home, but much larger. He felt tempted to empty his account, but satisfied himself buying several treats to share with Ekla... after, of course, he had first pick.

Wandering with his bag of delights in his hand and his emerald armor gleaming in the artificial light he found many people took the time and effort to show him respect. Unggoy and Kig-Yar hurried out of his way when he approached, and many Sangheili gave him polite half-bows when he passed. A few stopped to ask him about the goings on at Institution, what Magisters had or hadn't been recalled to active duty, if he knew a certain Elite Junior, and so on.

However, as he proceeded down the promenade, he saw the crowd parting up ahead of him. The wave reached him and he shuffled off to the side like everybody else, only then seeing what had prompted such behavior: a Sangheili in brilliant gold armor was walking down the center of the street, nodding hello to all he passed. His armor was of a command level, and the adornment on his armor betrayed his rank: a Ship Commander.

As he passed Oriné bowed low out of respect, waiting for the shadow cast by the warrior to vanish from his peripheral vision; yet it only stopped and backtracked. Soon the young Elite Junior was aware the Commander had stopped in front of him.

"Raise your head, Junior, so I might look at your face," the Sangheili commanded. Oriné did as he was ordered, daring to meet the eyes of his superior. The other Elite scrutinized him, moving his head this way and that as he judged his features. Finally he huffed. "You look familiar. What is your name, child?"

_I am no longer a child. _"Elite Junior Oriné 'Fulsamee, Excellency," he replied stiffly.

"'Fulsamee?" The Ship Commander's eyes went wide with recognition. "You are of the same clan as Ship Master Orna 'Fulsamee?"

Oriné temporarily forgot the proper protocol. "Ship Master...? My brother has been promoted?"

The Commander laughed. "Brother? You're his brother?" A smile crossed his mandibles. "Yes, he has been promoted, and that lucky sod has gotten a ship of his own. I was promoted to fill his place on the _Virtuous Pilgrim _after he left. I am Gersha 'Kaeromee."

For most lower-ranked soldiers it was rare to learn the exact name of one's superior officer; most were called by nicknames through the ranks. Yet this one, 'Kaeromee, offered his name right away, despite the fact that an Elite Junior and a Ship Commander were _worlds _apart in skill and stature. The younger Sangheili was wary.

All caution melted away to pure surprise, however, when the Commander held out his hand, palm down with fingers splayed. It was symbolic of brotherhood, far more formal than the touching of foreheads yet just as sincere. "Come, dine with me," 'Kaeromee said. Oriné nodded and fell into step with his superior; even though he was not hungry it would have been terribly rude to decline.

"Shall we eat here?" 'Kaeromee asked, looking at a small corner restaurant with an outdoor pavilion. Most eateries, Oriné had observed, kept large spaces in the open air, most likely because there was never any risk of rain and tourists wished to dine in the full splendor of High Charity.

"It looks to be a fantastic choice, Excellency."

The pair took a seat, and immediately servant Unggoy rushed out, spurred into a frenzy of activity by the golden armor of 'Kaeromee's command. A moment later the owner of the establishment, a Sangheili dressed in a fine tunic, came to personally take their orders.

"Let it be known, my lords, that it is a pleasure to offer my services." The overseer anxiously took their requests for bowls of kashalai and some thin wine and hurried off, yelling for his Grunts to pick up the pace.

After a moment of nervous fidgeting, Oriné met 'Kaeromee's eyes. "So how was my brother faring, last you saw him, Excellency?"

"He was doing fine. Once he was promoted he almost became a different person: much more focused and dedicated to his work. Before he had been laid back, always willing to skip out on his command duties to join us for a meal or a game; afterwards, he spent all his time studying and preparing for his command aboard his new ship." 'Kaeromee huffed. "No fun at all."

_That sounds like him, _Oriné thought to himself. Orna had always been fun loving, willing to play with his baby brother, but when his own journey to Jisako neared he became secluded, spending all his time either dueling with their father or studying the climates and creatures of the planet he would spend a year on. Even when he came home prior to departing to Institution he had little time to spend with his family: he went out with his friends, either enjoying themselves or sparring in preparation.

"How did he earn his promotion, Excellency?"

At that moment the food arrived, two heaping bowls of kashalai and two goblets filled to the brim. The Unggoy gingerly placed them on the table, bowed, and jogged off in a hurry; a shadow away the Sangheili overseer watched his servants carefully to make sure they didn't make any mistakes.

The two began to eat their meals, 'Kaeromee not bothering to answer Oriné's question. They ate for a while in silence before the Ship Commander spoke up. "What is your passion, young 'Fulsamee?"

Oriné automatically sat straighter and puffed out his chest. "To give my life in the service of the Covenant," he said reflexively, "to fight and die with honor and deliver my enemies unto annihilation to further the Great Journey, so that one day I and my family may rise from the void and walk the path of the Reverent Forerunners."

'Kaeromee smiled. "A very good recital," he said, "but that's not what I asked. You attend Institution, correct? What is your preferred field?"

The question caught Oriné off-guard. Was this a test? He had heard of Elites being planted among the ranks purely to test the loyalty of others; it was entirely possible that the story of Orna was a cover, and the gold-armored Sangheili had been sent as a spy. Yet what he had said rang true, that Oriné's older brother did indeed tend to lose himself in studies when a time of great change occurred. That account was accurate enough to lead the young 'Fulsamee to trust him for now.

"I like Combat," Oriné began. "I like working with my hands, holding a rifle, marching with my brothers-in-arms, but..." He hesitated, unsure if he should continue. "...but I very much like Knowledge. I lose myself in texts, descriptions, accounts of past battles, of encounters with alien races, and I enjoy it. It's like... a pleasing thing to do on the side of my regular duties."

"What about Faith?"

Oriné continued cautiously. "Faith is the path of the Forerunners, a holy and sacred following that shows us how to live our lives and conquer our enemies for the sake of the Great Journey. But that is what it amounts to: a guideline, simply a set of rules for us to keep in mind always yet be ourselves free to do what we wish within those rules."

The Ship Commander nodded, seeming to contemplate Oriné's words. After a moment, and another helping of kashalai, he leaned forward. "You said you enjoyed Knowledge. What specific field is your favorite?"

"Heretic studies, Excellency," the young Elite Junior replied. He was beginning to feel comfortable talking with 'Kaeromee, yet didn't forget the proper respects. "Especially the humans."

The gold-armored Elite pulled back, a look of unadulterated revulsion crossing his face. "The _humans?_"

"They're fascinating, both in physical structure and culture." Oriné went on like he hadn't seen the Commander's reaction. "They are not as balanced as we are, but they have five digits on their feet that allow them a greater range of terrain. Admittedly their knees are only hinge-joints and their eyes are cooperatively limited, but—"

"Enough!" 'Kaeromee roared, shocking Oriné and all nearby patrons into silence. "The humans are filthy, disgusting creatures who have done nothing but inhibit our abilities to grow closer to the Forerunners. They deserve nothing more than to be burned out of existence and then forgotten. In fact, it is a travesty that they were even given a _name _among our ranks, and it is downright sacrilegious that we even bother studying them. They are weak and frail and insipid!"

A few murmured agreements filtered in from the surrounding crowd but Oriné's mandibles remained slack from the sheer abruptness of the outburst. He could see the fiery passion of 'Kaeromee's words burning in his superior's eyes; no matter the truth, the Ship Commander's belief overshadowed it and blinded him to anything but personal glory. It was an impenetrable wall.

"F-Forgive me, Excellency, my tongue knows not when to quit." Oriné lowered his head and stared intently at his lap. "My shame for angering you is great. Please, allow me my leave."

As he began to rise, however, the gold-armored Sangheili sighed. "No, remain here, if you will," he said. Oriné's head rose to meet the other's eyes once more, but the fire had dulled. Rationality had again taken hold. "The folly of youth is unavoidable, I suppose. Better that you had suffered such ignorance in the realm of Knowledge than in Faith or Combat." 'Kaeromee finished his goblet of wine in one swig. "I shall tell you a truth of the battlefield: all knowledge is left behind when you depart Institution for the final time. All that remains is instinct, reaction; you have no time to think."

"Yes, Excellency," the Elite Junior replied, easing himself back into his seat.

Normal activity had resumed around them, and the Ship Commander decided to follow a lighter topic of conversation. "So, young 'Fulsamee, what brings you to High Charity? Surely you are not on leave already."

"No, Excellency, I am but a Rank Two," Oriné replied. "I am here following my duties as protector of a vestar."

'Kaeromee began laughing heartily upon hearing that. "Truly? You were selected for guardian duty?" He wiped a tear from his eye. "Your brother and I both had the same duty; we each protected a vestar while we were here." A smile graced his mandibles. "Both were quite... _affectionate _towards us, to say the least. It was to be expected, of course: Elites are far out of their reach here, but having strong escorts at their side every minute of every day, well, temptation does arise."

The younger Sangheili fought to keep the blood from rising to his cheeks, recalling the previous evening in fantastic detail. Even if the experience was similar to the Ship Commander, he dared not talk about it. Perhaps there were eavesdroppers, or perhaps 'Kaeromee himself would report the Elite Junior's affair with the vestar.

"I assume your charge is currently behind the walls of a temple?"

"Yes, Excellency."

"Yes. That was the only time Orna and I were separated from our vestars. During those times we did what you are doing: went out into the city and enjoyed ourselves." 'Kaeromee smiled again. "You know, you seem like you're turning into a fine warrior, Oriné 'Fulsamee. You have your brother's ways about you, I'm sure, and his skill without a doubt." The Elite Junior smiled timidly at the praise.

The rest of their time together was spent discussing the politics of High Charity and the Covenant. However, Oriné had little experience with it and therefore kept his opinions largely to himself; instead he merely listened to 'Kaeromee rant on about the details of assassinations and troop movements.

Finally the Ship Commander saw fit to take his leave. He paid for the meal and the pair walked out into the street. "Farewell, Oriné," 'Kaeromee said. "May the Prophets bless you and the light of the Forerunners show you the path to greatness." The Elite Junior bowed low in response.

The gold-armored Elite turned to leave, but stopped and looked over his shoulder. "By the way, what is the name of your charge?"

"Ekla."

'Kaeromee's eyes widened at the name and the small facial signs of contentment evaporated, replaced with shock. "Take caution, young 'Fulsamee," he said in low tones, "and protect her _very _well. Treat her with every bit of respect and dignity, or a bad fate shall befall you." Oriné cocked his head to one side, puzzled, but before he could inquire as to the meaning of the statement the Ship Commander turned and strode off into the street, the crowds once again parting like waves before the prow of a flotilla. The Elite Junior was left thoroughly confused.

* * *

The next day, after being rudely dismissed from temple grounds again, Oriné pursued a different route than before. Though 'Kaeromee had been overall kind he had little care to repeat the encounter. Instead he ventured towards a sector of the lower districts he believed to be the least likely locale of the Ship Commander: the museums. A brief tour revealed his options in the field of Knowledge: Heroes of the Covenant, almost singularly dedicated to the Arbiters, the Sangheili legends; The Prophet Hierarchs, with complete biographies of each of the leading members of the Covenant, from when it was a single Holy Emperor leading them to when it became a triumvirate; Tools of Conquest, a history of every Covenant weapon and armor system, from the original Hunter armor that had begun the more brutal half of the Taming to the latest prototype vehicles and firearms reverse-engineered from existing Forerunner designs; and the Hall of Heresy, displaying records of all the heretical races and the last few sacrilegious relics of their societies.

After only a moment's hesitation he chose the one relating to heretics. The others hardly interested him at all, as he was a soldier and learning about weapons and armor back at Institution, he had no interest in the history of the Prophets, and while the stories of the Arbiters were awe-inspiring to hatchlings he very much doubted he would ever meet one in his lifetime. Besides, he wished to devour all knowledge of human culture despite 'Kaeromee's passionate outburst at the corner restaurant. He approached the Sangheili standing at the entrance and began to withdraw his account card to pay for admittance, but after seeing his armor the attendant smiled, bowed, and waved him through.

Inside it was hardly breath-taking, but still captured his interest. The hall was wide, with displays on either side showing off their contents in spotlights while holographic text scrolled through the air nearby, detailing and explaining which was what and how the Covenant had crushed the species into dust and scraped them from their boots like excrement. Higher up along the walls, close to the ceiling, were evenly placed skulls from each race complete with mood-lighting and placards beneath.

Aside from himself, there was only one other occupant. A Kig-Yar cleaner skulked about in the shadows, deactivating force-fields around the exhibits long enough to dust and buffing the occasional fingerprint from the wall. In the darkness most of his avian features were obscured, such as its beak-like mouth and plumage running from the back of its neck to the top of its forehead, but its luminescent eyes shone like two pink lights with dark spots for pupils. Catching the Elite Junior staring, it turned and met his eyes, and after a moment's hesitation it gave a grudging bow and shuffled off. Having never met a Kig-Yar before, let alone getting to know one, he was unsure why they always seemed so... distant, removed.

He brushed off the encounter and proceeded down the hall, occasionally pausing before exhibits to examine a peculiar object or two and read information pertaining to the race that had created it. Perhaps one of the more dominating displays had a full skeleton of one of the heretic races, the Korini. It stood as tall as a Lekgolo, but the scrolling text informed Oriné that the creatures, during the fighting, had neglected to use armor of any sort and utilized only primitive blades and javelins in combat. Yet by combining further information from the terminal with his own observation of their skeletal structure he saw where their strength had lain. They were thin and nimble with long dexterous tails and flat, wide heads. Their shoulders could be rearranged, allowing either for bipedal movement with manipulative hands or the use of four-legged speed with the tail being used to move things around. The Elite Junior decided that, when bipedal, they would use the swords and axes described in the account, and when they dropped to all fours they would hurl javelins using their tails.

They had not been space-faring or even particularly advanced in culture when the Covenant had arrived, but that came as no surprise. Very few races had had full space capability when encountered, and the only two of note were the humans and the Kig-Yar; the latter had proven so belligerent and difficult to overcome that the Hierarchs had been forced to declare them by allies rather than the strict definition of a client race; nowadays, however, the line had blurred greatly.

The text finished with a note that, while they had proved worthy opponents, they were not worthy enough for the Great Journey and were therefore exterminated by the might of the Covenant... plus their bodies were highly reactive with the plasma from the Covenant's weapons and were quite easily killed. Combined with their almost complete lack of proper healthcare, it came as little surprise that they were defeated.

Oriné reached the end of the hall shortly thereafter and entered a wide circular room: the special human exhibit. In the center was one of the humans' ground vehicles, the "Warthog." It was heavily damaged, having been removed from a battlefield to take its place here, but it had also been the most intact one. The glass windshield that protected the two front occupants had been shattered on the passenger side, the chassis scorched and burnt from plasma fire, and one of the tires deflated; it truly appeared pitiful. _How do they wage war against us with such inferior equipment? _The rest of the room was all displays set into the walls, with the left-hand side being military and the right being civilian. Already knowing much of army action he moved to the right.

Items from glassed worlds sat neatly behind force-fields, not so much out of care for their condition as caution for their defiling presence. Still and moving holograms decorated the walls, showing human ships being destroyed and their worlds being burned. The images replayed and replayed, switching sometimes to ground movements that had been captured as well, Elites and Grunts mowing through the humans. In one of the displays a recreation of a human dwelling had been partially completed using genuine furniture recovered for the sole purpose of being so displayed. The only other thing of any particular note was a complete human skeleton behind a force-field, held up in a standing position by a gravity wave. It looked so delicate, like even breathing wrong would turn it into dust, so he found himself unconsciously holding his breath. He exhaled slowly and looked at the skull in particular: hardly menacing at all.

Overall, however, the civilian section was lacking, and he quickly found himself in the military half of the room. One of the physical displays carried the different types of weapons used by these heretics, and they were many. Another housed different types of armor the humans wore, one being standard, and the other two being adapted for cold and carrying extra plating for added defense. The helmets were mostly similar.

Continuing a lazy orbit around the warthog in the center he viewed each exhibit three times. Finally he located a long cushioned bench and sat down heavily, meditating on private thoughts. From what he had seen the humans were hardly monsters at all; in fact, they were interesting. He didn't doubt their prowess with weapons or vehicles, yet it seemed that they would have made good allies. What he had learned at Institution showed him that though they were heretics, a vile affront to the Forerunners, they were brilliant. Though they were outgunned easily in space, battles on planets were far more pitched, often the Covenant and the humans coming to stalemates, or even the humans gaining ground. Were it not for the technique of glassing planets, the war would certainly be far more difficult.

That thought created a new path. The Sangheili prided themselves on their honor, yet how honorable was it to simply circle a planet and hurl plasma at the surface until every square inch was burned to a cinder? Was the Covenant waging war, a fair and honorable exchange between soldiers, based on individual merit and strategy; or were the Elites merely participating in extermination, a genocidal rampage that offered no chance of fighting back?

Horror flashed through his head. What heresy was this that infected his mind so? Immediately he began whispering various prayers of forgiveness, every one that he knew, and just to be safe he recited each one twice. How could he doubt the will of the Prophets? They spoke with the Gods, with the Forerunner lords; they could interpret holy scripture and decode the grand design. They knew what they were doing, what the humans really were. It had been foolish of him to fall into a trap of doubt.

Oriné stood and walked as quickly as dignity would allow towards the exit. It was this place, he rationalized. It was testing his faith. His heart would not waiver in its dedication to the Holy Covenant. As he stormed silently from the place the attendant smiled at him again, but he merely glared back. That purveyor of trickery... how was it he had not yet been executed? It seemed like he _sympathized _with the humans, almost. And whichever depraved cleric ran the entire museum area should have been humiliated before the Council a long time ago.

The Elite Junior began returning in the direction of the temple district; it was still far too early to pick up Ekla, but he had much to repent for. His sinful thoughts could damn him, and he wished to take no chance.

When he arrived, he blindly selected the nearest temple and made his way in. It was smaller than the others and therefore less traveled, so Oriné found solitude among the high walls. Settling himself on his knees in front of the shrine he bowed his head and clasped his hands in his lap, prostrating himself before the Gods. He pleaded for forgiveness, or sparing that, swift retribution; he did not desire to live if he was forsaken. Yet the roof did not cave nor holy assassins shrouded in light appear to send him into the dark beyond; instead, he persisted.

Still not feeling properly repented, Oriné lingered among the modest temple. Not even a cleric tended to the shrine, further proving its isolation, but the Elite Junior found comfort in that. Had one been there he would have been compelled to confess his thoughts to a fellow Sangheili, and he found them to be much less forgiving than the Forerunners he prayed to. Still, he could hear the commotion of passers-by beyond the walls.

A bench along one wall was particularly inviting and he sat down, relishing the humble splendor of the building. It was so quaint and so inviting, he wondered why more people didn't spend time here. _But if they did, then it would not be so appealing, _he realized, _and they would stop coming here. Yet by being so empty it would regain the charm it lost, and people would once again return... _The cycle would never end, he realized, and along with that revelation came one that perhaps that theoretical cycle was already spinning and he had come during the down-time; perhaps _he _was the catalyst that began the upwards motion.

Life operates in cycles, he rationalized, every aspect of it. "Visitors to this place are cyclical in their nature, as is everything else," he said aloud, expressing his opinions to no one but the Gods. His mind drifted back to the museum, the rows upon rows of skulls from conquered species, and he realized the Covenant wasn't removed from that cycle. They found heretic species and erased them, preserving them only in texts and a small building tucked away in the holiest of cities. It had not been broken, _could _not be broken, could it? But if it couldn't be broken...

_Then where does it end? _Oriné hunched forward, resting his head in his hands. The theological answer was, of course, the Great Journey. It was an end, and it was a beginning. It was glorious. It was magnificent. It was to be striven for in every aspect of one's life, from warriors to mothers. Yet in the millennia of the Covenant's existence they had not achieved it; what was the probability he would see the resolution of this odyssey for salvation?

He caught himself going down that heretical path again and stopped himself, determined to focus on lighter things. Lying along the bench, he stared up at the ceiling and thought of Ekla. _She gets to experience this every day, existential crises and questioning the Journey. But it's okay for her to do it, because that's her job: she must seek the path, while we warriors protect her._

A feeling ran down his spine, but he was unsure what it was. It was directed towards Ekla, he was sure, and that made his hearts warm. The way she had simply taken him in her arms that day was... well, it still took his breath away. Certainly it was far from masculine; for him to be a true purple-blooded Sangheili warrior he should have swept her up and carried her to the bed chamber, but the way it happened was fine by him. Their days together were numbered, though, and Oriné didn't look forward to his return to Institution. They would be separated for a great deal of time, unknown and uncountable. Could he rely on her to stay loyal and sincere? They were not bonded, they had only met a week ago, and therefore there was no real obligation. The logical part of his brain knew this, but his heart said their feelings were true.

However, he reminded himself, what they were up to at night was a different matter. It was amazing, making love to a woman, but at the same time incredibly risky. It was almost expected of a Sangheili his age to experiment beyond a Bonding, but for an Elite Junior still in Institution it would bring heavy consequences if they were discovered. Ekla's mother was away at a colony but had sent word of an impending arrival; no one was sure exactly when she would be back, but Oriné hoped she would not pay them an untimely visit.

As he thought, his eyelids grew heavy and fell, pulling him into a dreamless sleep.

* * *

Yarna 'Orgalmee leaned up against the wall of the squadron's training room, breathing heavily and clutching his malier. At knee level was Olah 'Seroumee, sitting cross-legged and observing the sparring going on. The fatigued Sangheili cast a glance down at his squadron leader.

"What do you think Oriné is up to?" he asked, attempting to make conversation.

Olah shrugged his shoulders. They were broad and muscular, more developed than most of the other cadets'. _With good reason, _Yarna thought to himself, _he trains himself in Combat every waking moment. _The squadron leader awoke a full hour before any of the other Elite Juniors and exercised fervently; the other Elite Junior had once woken up a minute earlier and saw Olah return from a run around Institution.

Yarna looked up at the ceiling and sighed. "I suppose he's cavorting with that vestar... I don't trust her. It seemed as if she was hiding something from him, and from the rest of us." He looked down again. "What do you suppose it could be?"

Again a shrug. Yarna narrowed his eyes. "She could easily draw him into trouble; he is naïve, and may fall easily to the charms of the fairer sex..."

"Oriné is a capable warrior," Olah said finally. "He can take care of himself."

The other Elite Junior clicked his mandibles and eased himself off the wall, going back to the sparring matches. _Obviously you don't know him as well as I do._

* * *

Oriné woke with a start. The first thing that occurred to him was that the crowds had fallen silent, having vanished at the approach of night-time. High Charity orbited no sun, and even if it did those within would not be exposed to the light, so artificial sources of illumination were everywhere. When "night" fell there was no change in light, only in the behavior of the people.

Mentally swearing at himself, the Elite Junior rose off the bench and walked quickly from the small temple. He was late to pick up Ekla; he wondered if she had waited for him, or if perhaps one of the Honor Guard had escorted her home. As he passed into the comprehensive temple grounds he took note of the lack of guards. _The changing of the guard is occurring? I am _very _late indeed. _He began to pick up the pace, jogging towards the temple where Ekla studied, formulating an explanation in his head as he went along.

He found himself passing through a multitude of smaller buildings; he had been too far from the main causeway and trying to find it would have taken even more time. But as he passed by the space between two chapels the world suddenly spun, and the Elite Junior found himself face-first on the ground. As he lifted his head to try and make sense of what happened an iron grip seized him by the ankle and dragged him backwards into the alley.

The hand let go and he immediately flipped on his back to see what had just grabbed him, and he found himself looking into the faces of three Jiralhanae. The closest one smiled with crooked teeth, brought up its foot, and slammed it down into Oriné's stomach. The air was pushed from his lung and came out his mouth in a loud wheeze; the other two Brutes followed up with strong kicks to his ribs.

Realizing that he was caught in three ways, the Elite Junior knew that he had to escape the maelstrom if he hoped to be able to defend himself in any way. He took in a ragged breath and rolled to one side, dodging the next wave of kicks. Firmly planting both palms on the ground he thrust one hoof upwards, catching one Jiralhanae in the chin and sending it reeling. The other two took a step back, not having expected Oriné to recover so quickly and unwittingly giving him the time he needed to get back on his feet.

When he was stable on his hooves Oriné threw a punch at the nearest Brute, the one whom he had kicked moments before. His fist caught the creature in the side of he face, knocking it back to the wall; the Elite Junior followed up with a high kick, slamming its skull against the surface. There was a sickening crack and the Jiralhanae slumped to the ground, either unconscious or dead.

Oriné focused his attention on the other two, but four-hundred pounds of Brute slammed into his midsection as one of his assailants tackled him to the ground, pinning him under his weight. The Elite Junior tried to raise his legs and kick him off but they were trapped. The second one entered his vision, reared back, and delivered a bone-crunching punch to his face. One of the Sangheili's mandibles bent at an unnatural angle and he heard a snap; roaring in pain he tried to do something, _anything _to break the hold on him but he was powerless. Again the Jiralhanae pulled back his fist and again rammed it into his head. This time he mercifully blacked out for a few moments.

When he came to he found himself held against the wall by his throat. His eyes rotated around and he saw the purple stain on the ground where he had been savaged. The Brute holding him smiled as the Sangheili's eyes once again fell upon the attacker, yet none of his limbs responded to his retaliatory efforts.

"Little hatchling," the Jiralhanae crooned mockingly, "Have you forgotten how to scream?" A knee came out of nowhere and slammed into just below his chest and he doubled over, the fist around his neck letting go to grab his arm above the elbow and hurl him several feet down the alley. He came crashing down at an angle, his shoulder popping out of its socket and his helmet skittering off into a shadow. Oriné felt tears well up in his eyes but forced himself not to cry; he would show no weakness. Climbing to his feet unsteadily he turned just in time to be punched in the side of the head, followed by a sweeping kick to knock him down once more.

_This is how I end? _The Elite Junior glanced up pitifully at his attackers, the area around one eye swelling and forcing it shut. _Caught in an alley, ambushed by Jiralhanae... I wanted to die a warrior's death. _As much as he wanted to look away, he could not; he merely stared at the Brute looming over him, waiting for the death blow to come.

Suddenly the other one standing barked something in their foul native tongue, and the one who would kill him withdrew, grabbing their fallen brother and dragging him off. As quickly as they had seized him they vanished, and much to Oriné's chagrin he realized he didn't know who they were. He lay there for a while longer, trying to summon his strength; all he managed for the moment was to drag himself into the shadow where his helmet lay and reattach the rogue armor. After a while of struggling he managed a sitting position with his back against the wall. A purple stain was left from where he had lain moments before, continuing across the ground to his current location.

An Honor Guard passed by the opening of the narrow space, oblivious to what was within, and Oriné suddenly realized why the Jiralhanae had run off. Had they been discovered they would have been publicly tortured and humiliated for defiling a holy place with bloodshed... or perhaps not. The Elite Junior knew that the Prophets had been showing increased favor with the Jiralhanae, and crimes that other Covenant clients may have been drawn and quartered for the Brutes got away with and received hardly a slap on the wrist.

Managing to stand, Oriné began limping away. He maneuvered around the back of the temple and moved only when there were no Honor Guards nearby; as much as they would help him he did not want to explain himself or what had happened. Finally he stumbled onto the gravity walkway and rode it to Ekla's apartment.

As he alighted on the balcony and staggered into the apartment, the vestar came storming out of her room. "Where were you?!" she demanded. "I had to be escorted home by that pompous— oh, Gods!" She rushed forward to try and catch him as he fell. He crashed to his knees and began to tumble forward but she strained to hold him up.

Oriné wanted to say something, anything, but all he managed to do was slump to one side, collapse on the carpet, and bleed.

* * *

The sixth and final night of Oriné's stay at High Charity had arrived. He still wore a brace on his lower-left mandible and his shoulder was still sore, but he had more or less recovered. A brief trip to the Healers that night and they had reset and mended his several cracked ribs using their miraculous Forerunner regenerative technology. Besides the awkwardness when he talked or tried to lift anything with his left arm he felt as good as new.

Now, though, sorrow crept into his mind.

"Tomorrow I will return to Institution," he muttered to Ekla, who was snug under his arm.

She only hummed. The room had darkened to simulate nightfall; even the light coming from between the curtains had been filtered to more closely resemble moonlight. Had either of them been inclined to pull them back, though, the illusion would have faded and they would have been flooded with light from the holy city beyond.

Oriné pursed his mandibles, one stiff and tasting of plastic. "Will you miss me?"

"Of course I will," she half-slurred, not bothering to roll over. It was not going as he had planned in his mind. He had believed there would be heartfelt discussion of broken hearts and waiting, of promises and fidelity. Yet she did not seem perturbed at all by his departure.

"Will you..." He trailed off, but was saved from continuing by a sudden commotion on the balcony. At first apprehension filled his heart; had those three Brutes tracked him down, come to finish the job and also cause Ekla harm? For a moment he was caught between the fear of a second beating and his sense of duty.

A voice resolved itself from the cacophony beyond the room; it was Sangheili by its timber and undoubtedly female. "Ekla!" the newcomer screamed. "Ekla, where are you?!" Suddenly the vestar was up from bed, hastily throwing a robe over her nakedness and rushing from the room, tying a sash around her belt as she went. In the dim light Oriné could not see what runes decorated it.

"Mother!" He heard her exclaim, and suddenly he went rigid. They had been caught at last, and though for a Sangheili of his age it was discouraged but expected, for a soldier in training sleeping with a female was out of line. _Especially _when that female was both his responsibility and a vestar in the convent.

He feared for his career, but he feared for Ekla more. There was shouting and Ekla trying frantically to calm her mother down but footsteps rapidly approached the bedchamber. Instinctively Oriné stood up, only realizing his mistake when the older Sangheili woman entered to find him unclothed and still clutching the sheet in his hand. Though the low light kept him from properly seeing color he was certain Ekla's mother's cheeks were flushed purple with rage.

"You _cur!_" she screamed, and in an instant two taller, much more imposing figures were at her side. From the faintly glowing ornamentation he could tell they were Honor Guards. "You call yourself a guardian?! I call you a filthy pervert!" The two guards advanced, their spears barely clearing the ceiling. Oriné took a step forward, opening his mouth to explain, but instantly the end of a spear lashed out and struck him in the sore shoulder; pain flared across his vision and he collapsed to one knee in agony.

When he looked up he found himself staring into the merciless face of a second-circle priestess. "Take him away and throw him into the streets," she hissed. "Garbage such as this has no place in High Charity." Following her commands the Honor Guards seized him by the arms and pulled him through the apartment towards the gravity lift. He caught a glimpse of Ekla's legs as they passed through the commons room, but shame kept his head bowed.

Once he felt open air on his neck he feared they might just throw him from the balcony; but they stepped into the gravity lift and he felt the wave of inverted gravity wash over him. When they landed at street level the pair gave him an unceremonious toss and he skidded to a halt, groaning in pain and indignity seven feet away. A moment later, after he had rolled onto his back, one of the Honor Guards returned and threw his storage container at him. It landed on its side, breaking the lock and spilling the contents into the street: his armor and dermo-suit, and the human book he had purchased upon his arrival.

"Her _father _shall hear of this," the guard snarled before moving back up. Oriné realized he should leave before they came back, so he hastily dawned his dermo-suit, packed the armor and book back into the trunk and hurried off.

The remainder of the night was spent in a public house, with a free bed provided by the owner for all soldiers of any rank. Mercifully he asked no questions. The next morning, at the appropriate time, he reported to the docking area where the _Destitute Conquest _was waiting to depart. The other Elite Juniors who had been selected for escort duty were there with their vestars, some giving covert signs of affection; Oriné was the only one to arrive alone. As they prepared to board the ship via the gravity lift they gave him curious looks. All he did was stare ahead.

On board the ship he found his way to his quarters and slumped into the bed, feeling cold, alone, and sorrowful. A chime sounded, and though he demanded in unkind terms that they leave him be, three of his comrades entered anyway.

"Where was your charge, Oriné?"

He sighed heavily. "We... in the opinion of her mother, I was a poor escort."

"Oh," they said, catching on. One spoke up after a moment's silence. "Well, I suppose not all of us can escape these minor heresies cleanly. What was her name?"

"Ekla," he said, closing his eyes and clicking his mandibles. Silence met his ears. He opened his eyes and looked at his comrades; they stood in complete shock. "What?"

"By the rings," one of them said, "you may well be doomed if her father hears."

Exasperation took him. He still had no idea what they were going on about. "What is it?" he demanded. "Who is her father? What does he do?"

"You didn't know?"

"No, no one has seen fit to inform me."

They fidgeted for a moment before one finally dared glance at him and answer his inquiry. "He is the Head Master of Institution."


	7. Commencement

Chapter 7: Commencement

Fear gripped Oriné 'Fulsamee as he walked through the halls of Institution. Every shadow seemed to take a twisted, demonic form, with claws that reached out to tear him to shreds. His eyes darted around nervously, looking for whatever it was that made his neck tingle so; but there was nothing, just him and the empty corridor.

Since his return, he had not felt at peace. Upon learning of Ekla's true identity as the daughter of Institution's Head Master he constantly expected swift death to fall upon him. His unease was only made greater by the fact that, so far, no reprimand had been delivered. For such a dishonorable action anyone would be punished, and Oriné did not think himself to be free of that rule of society. So why had there been no retribution? Nightmares filled his slumber, of him being dragged from his bed and publicly tortured, of him being thrown into an airlock and ejected into space, of him being stripped naked and forced to fight against a Yorahii in a small, cramped space, alone and destitute. The worst, however, were the dreams where he was dragged into the Chamber of the Head Master and placed before his mercy. He was always veiled in shadows, possessing a deep voice and shining, blood-red eyes that cut through the mystique surrounding him. Always he would speak, but Oriné couldn't understand the words; they made no sense. Finally the shadows surrounding the figure would expand and swallow him whole, and he would wake in a cold sweat.

The journey through the corridor was complete. A door slid aside and Oriné entered his squad's quarters. Several of the Sangheili within called out greetings, but he just nodded back and made his way towards his bunk. Around him his comrades were preparing for sleep; a few tooled through their Lumidexes for a few more moments before finally putting them down. They removed their armor, except for the dermo-suits, and climbed to their appropriate positions, with those in the first row of bunks settling in before everyone else, activating their gravity step, and the second row doing the same, and so on. Oriné was on the third row of five, and thus had to climb into his own bunk, lie down, activate the force-field, and watch nervously as his squad mates climbed over him to get to their own beds. Would that be how the Head Master was to kill him? Deactivate the field just as someone was walking over, his hoof coming down on Oriné's head and killing him?

_That's __ridiculous,_the rational part of his mind told him. The Head Master didn't have remote controls for the force-fields, and even if he somehow programmed it to accidentally fail, such an accident would surely hurt but would not be fatal. Still, the Elite Junior felt paranoia seize him and he pressed himself deeper into the padding.

Sleep came quickly, and mercifully the dream of meeting the Head Master did not come. It was a dream Oriné had not yet experienced: he stood at the edge of a great circular platform, with a similar-yet-smaller one above and, if he looked through carefully carved holes in the floor, one below. Everything was matte grey. Surrounding him were Sangheili, but they were... fuzzy, distorted, as if they weren't actually there but instead somehow imprinted upon the air. Each had battle wounds, mortal bludgeons from the looks of them; they were ghosts, Oriné quickly realized.

He began to walk between them, and as he passed, each looked at him. _Injustice,_ they all cried out, but there was no sound. The Elite Junior continued to move about them, stepping between the phantoms as if he was looking for something; but he did not know what he searched for.

_Blasphemy, _one "said" as he passed it, and he stopped. _A diabolical trick, a betrayal of faith, but no faith in the betrayal._Sensing that was all he would hear he moved on.

_Lies of truth, _another said.

_Promises of sacrilege._

_The Age of Annihilation._

Oriné was confused. They spoke in riddles, and he walked on as if he searched for something. Suddenly a new phantom appeared, fading into view near the center, but this one was different: he was bathed in golden light. Unconsciously the Elite Junior moved towards it.

As he approached, he felt... familiarity. He could not understand, but it was there, tickling his mind, guiding him towards this being. When he was near, it spoke:

_Oriné?_The Elite Junior's head snapped up. How did this figure know his name? _Oriné, my friend, is that you?_

Oriné held out his arms as if to embrace the figure of light.

A chime shattered the dream, and Oriné jumped awake, his head coming up and smacking into the force-field mere inches above it. He fell back down, stunned and confused; where was he? What was this coffin he was trapped in? For a moment his mind panicked and he began to thrash about; then reality came back to him and he calmed down, but his eyes were still wide and his body soaked with perspiration.

He glanced around and saw his comrades also awakened and confused. Checking the time as displayed by his bunk, it was a full two hours before they usually got up. One sight, however, caught all their eyes. The Major stood in the doorway of the room, glaring at them, his hand resting on the chime console set into the door frame. It was only accessible to instructors and administrative personnel.

"Rise, cadets," he growled. They obliged, though not by choice. One by one the rows deactivated their bubbles and walked over their comrades to the door. As Oriné reached the bottom he yawned and stretched, gravitating towards Yarna 'Orgalmee.

"Do you know what's going on?" he asked. The other Sangheili merely shook his head.

"Don your armor, and be quick about it!" The Major's order was followed to the letter without question, and in the space of one minute all of the Elite Juniors were dressed in their emerald-green armor and standing at attention. "You will now follow me." They complied.

The walk was short, and when it reached its conclusion they found themselves in front of the armory. Once the door slid open they filed in and stood at perfect attention while the Major addressed two Minors quietly and sent them scurrying off to fetch something. As soon as they were gone the crimson armored Elite turned to regard the students.

"Remove your helmets," he instructed, and they did so. "These will no longer suit you. As of this moment you are considered Rank One, and will thusly no longer use simulation equipment for your personal training." One of the Minors reappeared and walked about, collecting all the helmets and depositing them on a hovering tray. "New ones shall be distributed momentarily. Right now, however, we must install new equipment in your armor." The Minor collecting helmets completed his task and returned to the Major's side while the second came through a doorway, pulling a container behind him on gravity treads. The first one stepped forward and cleared his throats.

"We will now install your shield and active camouflage generators," he said. "Approach one at a time as we call your name and we shall endeavor to make this go as quickly as possible." They began calling names, but Oriné soon lost himself in daydreams. _Rank One! _This was it. The final leg of his journey, and by far the hardest. From the stories he had heard told from the Elite Minors stationed at Institution, this was the time that he would have to prove himself. Live fire exercises, vehicular training, platoon tactics, command exams... and, once he had overcome them all, Commencement: his beginning as a soldier of the Holy Covenant. What glories awaited him on the front lines? How many foes would fall before him? How much closer would he grow to the glorious Forerunners?

"Oriné 'Fulsamee!" The sound of his name pulled him back to reality, and he mechanically marched towards the front. Upon his arrival they indicated for him to turn around; he did, and immediately the two Minors set to work upon his armor. He felt them tug and pull, and heard something beep in response. They fumbled with something for a moment behind him before he felt a pressure push into his back, an increased weight just behind his shoulders, and a satisfied sigh cascaded over his neck. "Finished. You may return to your place." He did so, and watched as Yarna received his generator as well.

Once all fifty cadets had their generators in place the Major stepped forth into the limelight again. "Bring up your wrist units. If you'll notice, the standing option has been removed and replaced with your generator status. Please take note that this is only the hardware condition; the percentage strength shall be covered later.

"From this menu you can activate and deactivate your shields and camouflage, but in a moment I will show you a better method. For now, however, use this control to activate your shields." Oriné reached down, as all his comrades did, and touched a finger to the appropriate icon. Suddenly an electrical charge surged down his spine, and he clenched his mandibles against the sensation. A few of his friends hissed in surprise, but most stayed quiet. A film was briefly visible over his arms and hands but quickly faded.

"Your shields have now activated," the Major continued, "and are now protecting you with the Forerunners' brilliance. Fear not the discomfort you just experienced, for you will become acclimated to it; that feeling will even become a relief. The shield works in harmony with itself; if you try to bring your hand to any part of your body you shall find passage uninhibited. However, try to lay a hand on your closest comrade."

Oriné reached over to touch the shoulder of the nearest cadet but quickly found his hand deflected, a sharp shimmer flickering over both his friend's upper torso and his own hand. He pulled back, anxious. "The shields are not yet in tune with each other, but once they establish their network they will function perfectly."

Once more the Major turned to an Elite Minor and nodded; the soldier turned and produced a helmet from the container. It had slightly different contours, an extra spike in the back and the wings on the side swept out a bit more. The Elite Juniors could only speculate the significance.

"Distribute these," he ordered, and the two Minors set about giving each cadet a new helmet. When Oriné received his he turned it over in his hands, admiring the shining newness, but also locating the most important design change: on the inside, set into the lining, was a peculiar array.

"Place them upon your heads," the Major instructed. There were several audible snaps as the shielding overlapped the armor, but the helmets fit snugly. "Activate the button hidden behind the right protective wing." They did so, reaching up their hands and pushing against the necessary toggle. Immediately a blinding light filled Oriné's vision and he cried out in surprise, unable to contain himself. It vanished quickly, but suddenly there were... _things _in front of his eyes.

"This is the holographic display. It is generated by the helmet. In the bottom left corner of the image is your shield generator and motion tracker. Weapon, ammunition, and grenade counts will be displayed along the top; the suit will automatically detect what weapon you are holding and create a network with its onboard computer to monitor the amount of charge left in the battery. There is also a small orb just off of the top left corner; when this is highlighted your active camouflage will be engaged." The Major began pacing. "When it is engaged, your shields will be automatically deactivated, and their power rerouted to keeping your camouflage on. When you reactivate your shields and turn off your camouflage, the shields will have no power for a short time while the armor recycles it. You must give it a chance to recharge."

The Major stopped and looked out at the group of Elites. A disquieting expression passed over his face; if Oriné didn't know better he would have sworn it was a smirk. "Your armor systems will require testing. An exercise has been prepared for you. Proceed to the Hall of Honor, you will be briefed there." The Major and his two attendant Minors took their leaves, and the students turned and left the armory.

As they moved through the hallway, Oriné's eyes drifted to his own motion tracker. There was a central yellow dot that he assumed was himself, and then forty-nine other yellow dots at various points around him. _Allies, _he realized. The suits networked with each other, making contact and identifying themselves as friends. He supposed that to identify enemies the same process was invoked, but a lack of response or an incorrectly encrypted one would result in the system being tagged as hostile. What had the Major called it, a "motion tracker?" _So it sends the signal based on movement. _

Orinéwas so fascinated with the new device that he hardly noticed it when they were in the Hall of Honor. Faux human buildings had been built here, reaching an average of three stories; it had been designed to follow the standard, seemingly senseless order the structures could be found in on their planets.

The Major walked out from between two alleys, followed by his two Minors. Each of them carried a bundle of maliers. "Take one," he ordered, and the Elite Juniors walked forward and grabbed one each. They returned to their places and put themselves into proper formation.

"Now we will begin," he said, signaling the two Minors to leave. "Standard combat, but now you fight until you cannot lift your weapon. There are no more standings, only pain and glory." He walked until he stood at the exit to the Hall. Glancing over his shoulder, he shouted, "Begin!"

Immediately there was a swirl of activity. Oriné was barely able to raise his malier in time to block the swing of a nearby cadet, but he parried and struck out at his comrade; the shaft slid off the shield of his opponent, stopping the actual harmful metal but not the kinetic force. His opponent reeled back and Oriné pressed the advantage until he was struck in the side by another cadet. Roaring, the Elite Junior rounded and slammed his malier into his attacker's face.

It was a bloodthirsty melee. There was no strategy in anyone's motions, just random beating and deflecting of staves. At any one point Oriné had no idea who he was attacking or defending against; there was only combat. Yet it was too much. He had to clear a path, or just clear his _head_. The fighting was fierce, but eventually Oriné began to see less and less cadets on the streets. Suitably beaten ones dragged themselves into the shelter of buildings, cradling wounded and broken limbs. Dropped, bloody maliers covered the ground.

After a good while of fighting, Oriné was able to appraise himself. A few bruises, and he had perhaps strained his left wrist, but beyond that he was thankfully intact. Not many still stood, but the battle had spread out; fighting was continuing in other boulevards, in alleys, inside buildings. Considering his options, the Elite Junior decided to pursue opponents on the other side of a building. He took a step towards the entrance, but thought better; inside was bound to be a death trap, and the two story building wouldn't be hard to go around. So he changed direction and headed for the alley next to it.

When he entered the shadow of the structure, a sudden chill washed over him. There was no sound, but a sensation built on the back of his neck; warily he glanced up and saw a shape falling towards him. Instinctively he dived to the side and brought up his weapon, prepared to fight; Olah 'Seroumee glared at him.

The battle began there in the alley. Olah charged but Oriné deflected it, turning and striking the Sangheili in the shoulder as he passed. His shields flared blue, but the other Elite Junior paid no heed, spun on his heel and lashed out, catching Oriné in the ribs. He doubled over in pain but recovered enough to parry Olah's next blow, the sound of metal impacting metal ringing through the closed space.

There was a strange look in Olah's eyes, Oriné could see. Something was guiding his actions, influencing his moves; he got so caught up in trying to determine what it was that he lost his advantage, Olah levying a savage attack and sending Oriné's malier skittering away. With a single movement Olah slammed Oriné against the wall, holding his malier hard against his throat and pushing. His shields absorbed the attack for but a moment, but they failed, and then the metal was against his bare neck.

"I was told to kill you today," Olah growled softly. The pressure increased and Oriné struggled to free himself, eyes wide. _Am I to die here, and the hands of a comrade?_ "I was told to make it look like an accident, make it look like I had simply gotten carried away in a training exercise." For a moment, Oriné felt his windpipe start to collapse; his eyes began to black out. But just when he was certain he was going to die the pressure disappeared and he collapsed onto his hands and knees on the ground. He waited for the deathblow, but it didn't come.

Terrified, Oriné looked up. Olah stood there, clutching his malier in his hand. "But you have your honor, and I have mine," he said. "I won't kill you today." The cadet stalked off, but paused at the exit to the street. He looked back. "By the end of this, though, you may wish that I had."

* * *

Training was tougher, even more so than after the transition from Rank Three to Rank Two. In Faith, entire chapters of the Forerunner Divinidex were to be memorized and recited, word for word, in front of a Lesser Prophet. Oriné often struggled up until the minute before he was called forward to memorize the passages. Despite many slips and mistakes, however, he somehow miraculously managed to slip through. In Knowledge, the focus was finally coming around to the humans. Human history was a common lecture topic and often took up great deals of time, as much had been gleaned from historical archives in captured museums prior to the glassing of a planet. "Elite Inquisitors are responsible for bringing us this information," Magister 'Alsakee said one day, looking directly at Oriné as he said it. "We should be thankful for having it, because without it, insights into things such as human battle doctrine and philosophy wouldn't be possible."

In Combat, things were accelerated dramatically. One of the newest additions to the roster was zero-gravity training, involving donning Elite Ranger suits and venturing into the space beyond Institution. At first the lessons revolved around getting a feel for space and basic maneuvering: the idea of up and down was quickly forced from the cadets' minds by their trainers. It was a trap, they were told; the best option was to locate any two objects and arbitrarily mark them as the direction of up and down. That way they would avoid becoming caught in such a horizontal mentality when fighting. After that came advanced maneuvering and combat. Oriné failed miserably in every aspect of space battle; during training exercises he was assigned by his teammates to be a stationary gun, which suited him just fine.

Regular vehicle training was implemented too, demanding the cadets demonstrate mastery of the various vehicles at the Covenant's disposal: Ghosts and Wraiths were the primary offensive vehicles, the small and maneuverable Ghost scout craft being a popular choice among speed-loving Elites while the heavy and armored Wraith mortar tank was picked for its offensive capability. Banshee fliers were mandated for operation, but the Spirit-class dropships were available if brave trainees wanted to try flying one. Many attempted it but only a few were any good at it; they were selected for continued training as pilots. Several prototype vehicles were also on display, but none were yet approved for operation by Juniors. When not training, however, they could go down and watch them be tested: Oriné found himself to be drawn to what seemed to be a militarized version of a Chimera. There was room for a single driver at the front and, for the mounted plasma turret on the back, a gunner; but along the wings, above where hover units were stored, there was room for two soldiers to sit and be able to brandish weapons. It seemed vaguely reminiscent of the human Warthog.

The other major change in Combat was the introduction of live weapon training. Each squadron had time to go down to the firing range and test the weapons available to them once they were on the battlefield. The plasma rifle was the primary weapon of the Elites, firing blue blobs of energy rapidly and, if the operator was not careful, overheating the unit and burning one's hand. Twice Oriné was dismissed to the infirmary where he had to have a quick-acting healing salve applied. Besides that there was the Needler, also available to infantry, which fired purple crystalline needles that could home in on targets and exploded upon burying themselves in a surface. A plasma pistol was essentially a scaled-down plasma rifle, but with a charge function. Oriné had little taste for either the Needler or the pistol because of their lack of stopping power. The only other weapon there was available to test-fire was the Fuel Rod Gun, firing an arcing glob of green radiation that could destroy Hunter plate. Two other weapons were there, but they were prototypes and like the vehicles were not available to cadets.

However, for a brief time an additional exercise was added to the Combat roster. Oriné and the rest of Squadron Twenty-two shuffled into the armory. Set up against the far wall was a set of Elite armor, uncolored and unshielded. One of the trainers paced back and forth.

"Welcome to the live fire test," he said. "Here we will demonstrate the destructive power of human weapons." He walked to a depository set into the wall and slid the door into the wall, revealing a locker of human weapons within. He removed a human assault rifle.

"This is the current standard of human frontline troops," he began, flipping it over in his hands. "I'm aware that it is considered dishonorable to use a human weapon, but it is not _forbidden_ in the Divinidex, so I will be able to show you _exactly _what to expect from one of these weapons." With that, he strode so he was standing about three yards from the armor on the wall, raised the weapon, and held down the trigger. A stream of solid-state projectiles flew from the barrel and struck the armor, enveloping it in smoke. After a while the gun clicked repeatedly, signaling that it was empty. He tossed the rifle aside.

"Look at the armor," he said as the smoke cleared. "As you can see, these bullets do not penetrate too deeply on their own, but there are a lot of them. It takes an average of one 'clip,' as the humans say, which amounts to sixty rounds, to drain your shields; while the armored parts of your body, such as your chest, back, arms, and legs have little to worry about, there is still the problem of more lightly armored areas, such as your neck and face." The trainer continued with the demonstration, showing off weapons like the pistol, which fired powerful semi-automatic rounds, to the deadly and formidable shotgun that tore up anything at close range.

Finally, he walked to the front of the armory and pressed a button against the wall, the molested armor falling loose from its magnetic holds and clattering to the deck. He glanced at it for a moment. "Now, by the Head Master's recent decree, all squadrons are to 'experience' the feeling of a human round hitting your shields." A wave of shock and tension passed through the crowd of cadets, but the trainer raised his hand to maintain order. "It is risky, yes, but we will only fire one round from the pistol at your chest, which is the most shielded. The bullet will not penetrate." Unease was still very much present in the room. No one stepped forth to volunteer.

"Understandable," the trainer muttered, then produced a Lumidex. "Very well. A name will be chosen at random by the computer. The first to be shot... er, to _experience _the battlefield will be... Oriné 'Fulsamee!"

Obligingly, but with no lack of apprehension, Oriné stepped forward from the crowd. He trudged forward until he stood at the front of the group, stood straight, and waited for the command. Outwardly he hoped he appeared confident; inside he was frightened and fearful. What if his shields failed? What if there was a mistake?

He was afforded no time to voice these concerns. The trainer picked up a pistol and took aim right at Oriné's chest. "Activate your shields, please," he ordered, and Oriné did as he was told. There was a crackle down his spine, but by now he had gotten used to the sensation, and actually found it marginally pleasant. The trainer double-checked his aim, looked down the sights of the weapon, and pulled the trigger. Suddenly pain exploded across Oriné's chest, white overcoming his eyes, but a second later his vision returned. There was no more air in his lungs; he had to draw a breath in consciously before he fell. The shield bar in the corner of his eyes was half-empty, and his hand instinctively went to the place where the bullet hit.

Except it hadn't. There was no hole exposing his vulnerable innards. His shields had held. On the floor was a flattened solid round, shining dully in the armory light. Looking around, he saw his comrades looking at him in a mixture of admiration and fear. Finally he nodded to them that he was all right.

"Well done," the trainer said, and then waved him down. He picked up his Lumidex again. "Any volunteers now? No? Then the next cadet will be..." His voice trailed off and he frowned. "Oriné 'Fulsamee?" He looked around. "Wasn't he just up here?" Several Elites nodded yes, Oriné most fervently. The trainer shrugged. "An overlooked glitch, I suppose. Let's try it again." Yet no matter how many times he tried to select a name randomly, the computer always gave him the same name: Oriné 'Fulsamee. After several minutes an Elite Minor technician was called for and the squadron dismissed.

As they left, Oriné overheard the conversation between the trainer and the Minor. "Is the program faulty?" the cobalt-armored Elite asked.

"No, it can't be," the trainer replied. "The Head Master himself oversaw the final encoding."

* * *

"We have been at war with the humans for several years now," Magister 'Alsakee said, pacing in front of a blank holographic screen. "In that time, we have learned much about them: their hygiene, their physical anatomy, their genetic makeup, and even their mating habits." Several of the Rank Ones who made up the audience shuddered at the memory of that particular lecture. "However, one thing that we rarely consider is how much _we _have learned from _them._"

Runes faded into view on the screen and quickly turned into individual scenes of combat, visual footage captured by soldiers of the Covenant. "Though no self-respecting commander would ever admit it," the Magister continued, "our own tactics have benefited greatly from observing humans in combat."

Oriné sat in the third row and was considerably intrigued. Human tactics employed by Covenant warriors? All he could imagine were Elites fleeing haplessly from their stations, which warranted a frown. Such an image seemed completely inaccurate, not at all what he would think of a Sangheili warrior. He immediately banished the picture from his mind. He would not stand it.

'Alsakee smiled, looking over the incredulous faces of the cadets. "Do you not believe me?" The screen faded to a model of a Sangheili soldier, dressed in the cobalt armor of an Elite Minor. "The tactics of sniping, flanking, and taking cover have been well-known battlefield maneuvers since war was first created." The model lay down in a prone position, holding an invisible gun, before jumping up and hiding behind an invisible wall. "For millennia, the Covenant has employed such tactics on the battlefield, though not quite to the same effectiveness as the humans." Several of the audience members murmured to each other, not properly understanding what the Magister was getting at.

"Please observe this footage taken during battle on the human world known as Jericho Seven." The screen changed again, this time showing the clear video of a battle taken in the midst of combat. The image bobbed up and down as it moved forward, but only slightly; the Ossoona in charge of recording the data must have been quite experienced. Speeding up, the footage advanced to the appropriate place: a group of humans, prone behind what remained of a wall. It could hardly have been six inches in height, yet simply by using it to help minimize their profile and exposed area infinitesimally they were avoiding being struck by the incoming plasma fire. One pulled and primed one of their fragmentation grenades, throwing it over the miniscule barricade. An explosion sounded moments later, and the plasma fire stopped completely. One of the humans peeked over the incline and let out a cheer.

The video changed, this time showing possibly the same Ossoona moving with a squadron of other Covenant. Suddenly there was a loud cracking sound and the Elite Minor who was leading the squad crumpled to the ground. The camera immediately began to shake as the Ossoona moved to cover, perhaps because he had been caught in the open without his active camouflage, but the sound of more sniper fire was easily heard. For a moment a Jackal was caught in frame, and just as he appeared his head exploded. When the camera looked away, the image froze, settling on a half-destroyed building. Scrutinizing the image closely, Oriné could see a slight vapor trail in the air leading back to a shadow on the fourth floor.

"From analyzing this," Magister 'Alsakee continued, "our own troops have been able to formulate similar strategies." The image changed again, this time becoming a video of Covenant warriors lying in wait. A single Warthog appeared, moving down a road between two buildings. As it passed between two alleys, a pair of plasma grenades flew from the shadows and attached to the front wheels, detonating in a cloud of sapphire flame and vaporizing half the vehicle. The audience of students cheered at the sight, and another video appeared: this time, two squads of Covenant soldiers were trying to advance down a street but stationary guns deployed by the humans were preventing them from moving. One of the Elites gave a garbled order to a Jackal, who nodded and began scaling the building with his partner. They reached the top without being spotted, moved along the top of the building until they were over the humans' position, and began firing down at them. The distraction was all the other warriors needed as they broke cover and advanced quickly.

The video faded and the holographic projector hummed down. Magister 'Alsakee paced in front of it. "The humans are heretics, have no doubt, but in their testing of our faith we can learn much. Even in space they have proven to be quite cunning, with maneuvers such as the 'Kiiz Loop'.

"The next lesson for today concerns the anatomy and edibility of certain flora and fauna on the human planets..."

* * *

The lessons in Combat, Faith, and Knowledge were long, brutal, and often; when the call came for squadron twenty-two to regroup in their quarters it had been a relief, but the walk back was painful for the students who were almost constantly bruised and sore.

As he shuffled into his place in the line of students, Oriné was not surprised to once again see the Major standing before them. His crimson armor was as radiant as ever, his face as chiseled and unreadable, and his stance rigid enough that it made people cringe to look at. Briefly the young Elite Junior wondered if he would ever learn the Major's name.

When everybody was assembled, the Major began to pace and speak. "I'm aware that your leave is coming up, but there is something that must be discussed prior to that, and that is your commencement assignments.

"Following your successful completion of training here, you will undergo the commencement ceremony. During the ceremony your achievements will be announced and judged, your dedications will be brought to light, and, most importantly, you will receive your assignment."

He stopped pacing and shot a glare into the cadet line-up. "Those of you fortunate enough to have a sponsor within the fleet will be assigned to that warrior's ship and that will be the end of that. You shall have nothing to worry about." Oriné noticed a few shoulders droop in relief before recovering.

The Major continued both his walk and his speech. "For the rest of you, there are two likely deployments: the front lines, and Institution. The front lines are fairly self-explanatory: you will be on human worlds, fighting for the Forerunners, their artifacts, and the sake of the Great Journey. This is also the most likely assignment, and I can guarantee that ninety percent of the cadets who will be promoted to Elite Minor will be sent to the front lines. You will be placed in a lance; a few students will be promoted to Elite Major, and they will have much bigger responsibilities.

"The second likely deployment will be here, at Institution. The reasons for being assigned here are numerous and plentiful, mostly pertaining to either a need for Elite attendants or the Head Master feeling a student needs additional discipline." He paused for only a second, but to the Elite Juniors it was easily discernible, a habit they had come to notice and understand in their several years at Institution. "It is not a permanent assignment, and following the completion of a 'satisfactory' stay you will be sent to the front." As he said it, he turned away and looked to the wall. For a moment his gaze remained firmly affixed there, and his shoulders shook perceptibly; but when he looked back, his glare was as fierce and venomous as ever.

"Be warned, though," he said, "those are only the most _likely _deployments. There are other possibilities, such as being assigned to a scouting ship or to High Charity, but these are all honorable paths to follow."

Yarna, who was several Sangheili down the line from Oriné, stepped forward. The Major turned towards him and nodded. "Excellency," the Elite Junior said, "are there any dishonorable deployments?"

"Yes," the Elite Major replied, "but straight out of Institution there are few. You might be given the assignment of what is called the 'Moon Guard'. It may sound strange and exotic, but it means nothing more than being deployed to an outpost located on a moon within our own space. Those are reserved for troublemakers and suspected traitors who might be sympathetic towards the humans. With enough work and valor, however, you could be rotated out and to the front lines."

The Major resumed his pace, but it was much slower and menacing, and coming towards Oriné. "Another possibility is being posted on survey duty. While a Surveyor your unenviable task will essentially be Inquisitorial follow-up; you will spend most of your time scanning and cataloging destroyed human planets, searching for missed sections and possible things of interest. However, you will likely never know combat unless you're facing surviving humans."

He was almost in front of Oriné. "The third possible dishonorable deployment is duty in a gulag. Human prisoners are sent there to be interrogated and... _executed_" There was a curios emphasis that left Oriné feeling uneasy. "Gulags are not located on planets for tactical reasons, and are instead free-floating space stations located in the rear lines. If you are sent there, you will _never _see combat, and will almost certainly never be transferred out. It is a dead end, and a terrible place to be."

By now the Major was standing directly in front of Oriné. He looked down the line that Oriné occupied. "You will, however, most likely not have to worry about these situations, so long as you have not seen fit to slight a higher official." It seemed like his cold eyes had settled on Oriné. His hearts sank. "If you have, pray that the Great Journey may sweep through soon after, that you will not be sullied and weighed down by your heresies and unable to be taken into godhood.

"Inoculations begin next week. Dismissed."

* * *

It was nearly time for leave.

Oriné found himself unable to focus after the lecture from the Major. He was consumed by grief and fear, both regretting his affair with Ekla on High Charity and resenting the society that caused it. There was little he could do, however. The weeks wore on and his fatigue grew: he managed to fail a spot-examination in Faith, was "killed" nearly every day in Combat, and fell into a fitful sleep during a Knowledge lecture. Magister 'Alsakee had noticed and placed a bowl full of water on the slumbering Sangheili's lap; when he woke up the bowl tipped over and spilled on his armor. Everyone laughed, even Oriné, though it had been a pathetic, exhausted laughter.

Most students claimed the same when he admitted his weariness, though for them it was simply having spent years in Institution's walls doing nothing but training. They wished to get out and enjoy themselves. Leave was nearly there, and all the students became antsy and unable to focus on their work; it was nothing new. "It happens to us all," 'Alsakee had told them after a particularly violent display of restlessness had wound up rendering a Lumidex airborne aimed for his head. He had dodged successfully.

The inoculations were painful as well. The Elite Juniors had blood samples taken and evaluated for a disease risk factor. Most Sangheili had a high disease tolerance when compared to other races, and it was true that a lucky few would not need inoculations and would be able to develop their own immunity rapidly upon exposure. Everyone else was given a plethora of vaccines based on their own risks.

Somehow Oriné was evaluated as an extremely high risk and was required to have each and every shot available, though the precise number escaped him. He had lost count around fourteen. Yet it made no sense: when he had been younger there had been no problem with disease. He never caught anything more serious than a flu. Prior to his departure to Jisako his father had insisted he be tested, and the results came back as low risk.

He asked a Healer one day while he was getting his dose for something called "meezelz".

"When we drew your blood we sent it to the lab here in the station," the Healer replied.

"How did it get back to you?"

"They transmitted the results over the network."

"Could they have been intercepted and changed?"

"I suppose, but why would anyone want to do that? If you suspect something is amiss, you're more than welcome to visit the laboratory and check the results yourself. But there's no harm in getting all the shots, even if you don't need them."

Oriné told himself that he would check the lab, but in the end he never did. He was often sore following his inoculation sessions, and always tired from the stress. All he did instead was think of the enemy he had made himself and which of the horrible fates would fall to him.

Finally, however, it came time for leave, and with it a different bunch of mixed emotions. The destination for the students would be High Charity, the holy city, and the city where Ekla and her family made their home. Oriné would be glad to be away from Institution, he knew, but what would he do if he saw Ekla again? Or her mother? Or, Gods forbid, her _father? _The latter wasn't a rational worry, as Ekla's father would still be at Institution, but there was a possibility that he'd be closer than he'd like: it was tradition that the top three students in a squadron would have the honor of staying in the Head Master's manor. Everyone else would be put up in barracks.

Before boarding the Phantoms to take them to the ship which would, in turn, go to High Charity, the students were being stopped and instructed individually by the Major. Oriné couldn't hear what he was saying, and all too soon it was his turn.

"Oriné 'Fulsamee," the Major muttered upon stopping him. "I understand you had an _eventful _stay at High Charity last time you were there."

The Elite Junior fidgeted. "Yes, Excellency."

The Major grunted. "We shall be sure not to have a repeat of that. You are to be assigned to barracks, where hopefully any disorderly conduct will be squashed by the authority there." He nodded and motioned Oriné onward, and the young cadet went. _I have built an unsavory reputation for myself, _he thought solemnly. _I deserve every word._

* * *

High Charity had not changed since his last visit. The Forerunner ship still stood in the center, crowds still swarmed in the streets, and everything was just as grand as he remembered... but the grandiosity hardly penetrated his skin.

It had been different experiencing the city alone. He had stopped to admire the smaller things, such as the way a tree swayed in the wind, an insect that crawled across a flat surface, or just the simple atmosphere. Yet, in a group, Oriné found that his priorities were different. He and his comrades were constantly searching for a means of entertainment or amusement as opposed to relaxation or enlightenment. At one point he directed them towards the Kig-Yar sweets shop that he had found last time, and the group of seven that accompanied him quickly set about diminishing their accounts. Properly fed they resumed their pace through the city.

There were many attractions that appealed to the cadets, one of which was the ability to rent Eidolons and go for a ride. Eidolons were demilitarized Ghosts with much steeper swept wings and less armor, but retaining the maneuverability and speed of their armed counterparts. In the evening the group of Elite Juniors would take their out and race them through the empty streets, often earning chastisements from the soldiers set to watch over them. Yet the speed was intoxicating, and they would sneak out and repeat the act every night.

Ekla, however, dominated Oriné's mind. At every turn he expected to see her, for her to jump with delight and run up so they could embrace again. Everything he saw reminded him of her, and he saw her in every face of every stranger. Several times he held back from running forward and embracing a female from behind, observing and finally deciding that the woman was not his lost love.

One night Yarna had caught him lingering outside the barracks after they had gotten back from a particularly high-speed race that left the older Sangheili as the winner. He snuck up behind him and gave him a violent push. Oriné nearly lost his balance but stepped out with one hoof to catch himself. He turned around and growled a challenge.

Yarna merely shrugged. "Why do you pine for her?"

"I love her," Oriné replied, flexing his hands.

"Do you? How can you be certain?" A dark look filled Yarna's eyes. "Does she love you?"

Oriné didn't reply in words; how could his friend possibly understand? Instead he swung out a fist, aiming for Yarna's head. The other Sangheili ducked and got inside Oriné's defensive area. He sniffed. "Have you been indulging, my dear friend?"

He had. Oriné had gone to the temple where Ekla studied in hopes of finding her, but after two hours of searching the grounds he had determined she wasn't there. After that he had found a pub and had a few bowls of wine. He was far from drunk, but there was a tingling sensation in his brain.

The emerald-armored Elite jumped back and swung again, this time aiming low, but Yarna merely stepped back. Oriné stepped forward and kicked, catching the other in his chest, but the older Elite Junior moved with the blow, turned around faster than the eye could see, and caught his friend's ankle. Caught in an awkward and unbalanced position all Oriné could do was hop and look indignant.

"Are you ready to calm down?"

"No."

"Then I'll just hold you here until you are."

They maintained their position for a good five minutes before finally Oriné's shoulders sagged. "Release me."

Yarna did so. Oriné did not try to attack again, merely turning away and continuing to sulk. Despite his best attempts, however, his friend was quite belligerent. "What is it that troubles you so, my friend?"

A sigh exploded from between Oriné's mandibles. "We hadn't even time to say parting words. How does she really feel? Does she wish to see me again at all? Was she punished for our affair? Where is she now?" It felt like a fantastic weight had been placed on his shoulders. "I wish I could speak to her again."

Yarna was silent, but a moment later his hand appeared on Oriné's arm. "We do not always receive the closure we search for in our lives," he said sagely, though in a careful and calm voice. "If you are sure of your feelings towards her, be confident in those. If you cannot find her, then so be it. But do not forget yourself: you are a warrior first. You must fight for the Covenant. Duty to females comes second."

Oriné nodded. There was truth and wisdom in Yarna's words. Without quarrel he allowed his friend to lead him inside, where their friends were engaging in games of Rocnas'al between the Elite Minors who already staffed the building and the Juniors who were staying for the duration of their leave.

"Oriné!" One of the cadets waved to him. "Quickly, we need your help! These scoundrels are leading by three games, and we must put them in their place."

Despite himself a smile came to his face and Oriné nodded, walking over to take up a board and challenge any who dared come forward. By the end of the night, the Elite Juniors had won by two games, and Oriné was recognized as the undefeated champion of Rocnas'al.

The rest of the two weeks went by quickly. Though he had not forgotten about Ekla, Oriné found himself to be more and more distracted and entertained by the company of his comrades. Together they toured almost all of the lower districts, meeting new people and experiencing new things. A few dared express an unwillingness to leave, but it wasn't sincere: they would be soldiers; that was the way of things.

On the day of their departure, Oriné broke off from the group long enough to go again to the museums. Much to his dismay, however, he found the Hall of Heresy had been closed. The building it once occupied was empty, totally devoid of the intrigue that had once pervaded the place.

"What happened to it?" Oriné asked a passing Sangheili.

"It was decided the Hall cast the humans in too favorable a light," the stranger replied, shrugging his shoulders. "The displays were removed and the curator was charged with heresy. He may be released, but his honor will be too far gone to recover."

_Heresy, _Oriné thought as he left. It was a terrible charge. Those who stood accused were jailed and tried; in the unlikely event that they were found innocent, nobody ever looked at them the same way again. Their Lineage fell to dishonor, and unless it was recovered through penance, it would never return. The Elite Junior felt pity for the curator.

When the ship left, the incident with the museum was fresh in his mind, but Ekla was even more so. Oriné gazed longingly out of a window on the observation deck, watching High Charity slowly shrink behind them. Though the image was holographically generated, he felt as though he could reach out and touch it, perhaps seize Ekla and pull her away with him.

_But she is gone, _he told himself finally, pressing a hand against the transparent material. Inwardly he tried to come up with something poetic to add to the moment, but his mind was blank. There was no thought, no feeling... strangely, none of the grief he had felt only moments before remained.

He stayed but a moment, then removed his hand and walked away.

* * *

The Commencement Proofs were well under way. Already Oriné's squadron had faced and emerged victorious from the Proof of Knowledge and the Proof of Faith. In the former they were each given a Lumidex with a different essay of Sangheili history and told to read it and make corrections within twenty-four hours. Oriné's essay had pertained to the initial discovery of the humans, and he had finished correcting it in eight.

Magister 'Alsakee had beamed when he handed over the device. "I'm sure you have done well as always, Oriné," he said. "My sister is lucky to have you for a son."

Oriné bowed. "Thank you, Magister. Are you blessed with children?"

He nodded. "My wife is expected to lay within the month. It is fortunate that my time here takes pause for a while; I will be able to witness my child's hatching with my own eyes." Oriné had thanked him for all the years of kindness and left after that.

The Proof of Faith had proved a sight more challenging. The Lesser Prophets made them stand in lines, in random order, and one by one recite excerpts of the Divinidex from memory _and _in order. Oriné had nearly slipped and forgot to include a line, but recovered quickly enough to avoid inciting the Lesser Prophets' ire. After he finished the Lesser Prophet merely nodded and indicated for the next cadet to continue. Once the Proof was completed no one stepped forward to offer him undue congratulations. _Just as well, _Oriné thought to himself, _Faith is not my strength._

Combat, however, was. The Proof of Combat was located in the Hall of Eternity, the largest in all of Institution, and more importantly, it was reconfigurable. For the Proof of Combat, it had been turned into a lightly forested plain leading into a mock human city. Squadron Twenty-two was to fight another squadron of cadets within; the former was on the offense, the latter defending. It was Twenty-two's duty to completely scour the city in six hours' time. The hall was massive and the city impressive in its size as well, though not so big as to be overwhelming.

However, this time it was made to be more real. Each Elite Junior in the squadron was given a small group of his own, consisting of a Jackal and two Grunts. Though not the first time he had seen a Jackal, it was the first time Oriné had one directly under his command. The Kig-Yar soldiers were over from their own mercenaries' academies, and their performance in following orders would ultimately decide if they were ready for combat. The Unggoy, however, would be sent to the front whether or not they made a "satisfactory" battle. What was riding for them was a position as a Grunt Minor or a Grunt Major.

The arsenal was mostly what was to be expected: training rifles and pistols, plus grenades. The Jackal had his own teal arm-shield that blocked the signals transmitted by the weapons, so it worked according to real combat. It was the same for Oriné's personal shield, though there was no recharging; after a certain number of hits, depending on what area was struck, the shield would fail and he would be defenseless. However, there was an additional armament allowed the Sangheili; most of the Elite Juniors had elected to bring their malier, but Oriné had clipped his twin nadier to his back.

Though the entire squadron had been deployed at the far end of the hall, amidst thin and wiry trees that offered poor cover, they advanced quickly. Oriné, Yarna, and a few of their comrades had elected to lead flanking maneuvers while Olah led the rest of the squadron up the middle to distract the majority of their opponents. The flanking groups had gradually split off so as not to be caught _en masse_; and though the main force was using the Jackals as a phalanx in the frontal attack, Oriné had his Jackal deactivate his shield for the time being, so as to preserve secrecy.

After several minutes of creeping through the sparse foliage, Oriné's group found themselves on the edge of the city. At first glance no patrol was evident, but they were already an hour and a half into the Proof; it was likely other such groups had been deployed in defensive positions.

"Lyt," Oriné said, looking back at the Jackal, "can you discern any movement?"

The Kig-Yar mercenary nodded. "In the window, Excellency, you can see how a curtain sways?"

Oriné frowned. "That is only the wind. I meant enemy troop movements."

"Look closer," the creature hissed. "It moved _against _the breeze." It took the Elite Junior a moment, but finally he saw it. Tentatively he raised his rifle towards it.

"What awaits us?"

"None of my Jackal brethren would make such a mistake," Lyt said confidently. "And your Elite comrades are far too concerned with glory to hide in such a way. It is only an Unggoy we face, nothing more." Oriné nodded. Though the mercenary was brutally honest in his manner, he was well educated in scouting.

"Very well," Oriné replied. He turned back to the Grunts. "Throw a grenade into that window, and be sure to hit it properly! When it goes off, we will have only moments to get to the shadow of an alley." One of the Grunts nodded and withdrew a training grenade. With a mighty throw the sphere was rendered airborne and fell into the window before a loud explosion was heard. The grenade didn't actually detonate but it mimicked the sound well enough; just as it did, Oriné rushed forward with his group on his heels, making a beeline for a dark alleyway. Once inside they ducked down behind human refuse containers. In the distance Oriné could hear the sounds of the main attack hitting the defensive line: fake artillery sounded, as well as the ring of plasma weapons discharging.

Oriné flattened himself against the wall as the Jackal did the same, but the Grunts' breathers were too bulky to mimic the motion; instead they just crouched down behind a replicated large trash unit. So far no one had come to investigate the sound. The Elite Junior waved his unit forward. Between the buildings the sound of their boots and hooves seemed unbearably loud, but the only other option was running through open ground, which would be suicide behind enemy lines.

He looked around intently for any sign of enemy troops, but none was to be had. Satisfied he waved his troops forward across the street and into the next alley. When they arrived, Oriné realized that by using that tactic he could leapfrog his way up the avenue and flank the enemy as they repelled the main attack force.

_But why not just run up the middle of the street? _He considered that thought. Many Sangheili warriors he knew of would do something such as that; after all, it seemed clear enough. But upon looking up, the Elite Junior realized how ineffective a tactic it would be. The windows overlooking the open space had a great view if he ordered such a maneuver, and though nothing could stop a possible sniper from reporting them, running from cover to cover would certainly reduce their chances of getting shot.

With care the group continued their way through the streets, not meeting any resistance. But with every step the sound of simulated battle grew louder. He waved down his comrades, giving a hand signal to tell them to check their noise levels. Peeking around a corner, he spied a group of Elite Juniors with their Grunts and Jackals running past towards the edge of the city. At first Oriné puzzled as to why they hadn't seen him, but then realized he had fortunately stopped in a shadow. He looked down at his armor, realizing that though it was still glittery, the color was muted and his opponents were looking for the bright emerald of armor caught in the artificial sunlight.

Oriné waited only a moment before shouting out the order to open fire. Surprised, many of the other cadets turned and brought up their training rifles, but Oriné's squadron was already firing. Several Grunts and Jackals fell under the simulated barrage, their training equipment paralyzing them as they were "killed." A few Elites had the misfortune of being too distant from cover and were similarly cut down, but many were able to dive out of the way. The return fire was erratic and uncoordinated, the commander obviously having not properly planned for the attack. A distance away Oriné heard Yarna's own group performing their own surprise attack from the opposite flank, and at the same time the fire from the main forces intensified. Caught by three fronts, the wiser students in the opposing squadron recalled their units while they still had the chance; those who had glory on their minds as opposed to victory were quickly cut down.

Oriné's own squad mates poured in through the opening, and he could see Olah leading the charge, his rifle in hand and his malier on his back. The squadron commander ran at the head of the spear maneuver, firing his weapon at the retreating enemy. As he passed, Oriné's squad fell into place beside his commander, and Yarna did the same but a second later.

"Who do you believe we fight?" Oriné asked.

Olah grunted. "Squadron Seventeen, I think."

At this Yarna let out a hearty laugh. "Seventeen against _us?_They haven't a chance!" Several of the cadets in earshot let out a battle cry at the words, Oriné lending his voice. The Unggoy cowed slightly at the noise, but several found courage enough to add their own high-pitched snarling to the din; the Kig-Yar, however, held back, remaining silent.

The push into the city was relatively easy from that point. A few of Squadron Seventeen's groups hid in buildings and harried the troops as they passed, but by and large Squadron Twenty-two's entry went unimpeded.

After about an hour and a half of fighting, Squadron Twenty-two had finally managed to secure the city except for their final objective: the enemy squadron's headquarters. It was located in a large two-story human building, with large pillars in the front and a decorative dome atop it. Olah sent scouts around the building to look for possible entry points, but none were apparent; only windows high up on the second story were visible, and without piton guns reserved for the Special Operations, they were inaccessible..

"Very well," the squadron commander growled. "We shall commence a frontal attack." He motioned for two groups to go in first and check out the initial area they would encounter; as the cadets ascended the steps, Oriné stood back and wondered why they had not been attacked. A few rifle-wielding students in the front doorways could hold off any number of advances from the attacking force. Furthermore, though Unggoy and Sangheili were plentiful, why had they not yet found...?

A cry rose from the groups sent forward. All eyes were immediately upon them, but there was a loud noise and suddenly the cadets at the doorway spasmed and crumpled to the ground. Two Hunter pairs appeared behind them; one pair jogged out of the building, pushing aside the incapacitated cadets as they did so, while the other remained in the doorway, adopting a defensive position and raising their fake Fuel Rod Cannons.

Chaos began to take hold, most of the groups panicking and beginning to run every which way. The Grunts seemed especially receptive, many dropping their weapons and running around in circles while waving their arms in the air. Oriné was so preoccupied trying to keep his group in line and his own mind calm that he barely registered Olah's call for grenades. He unhooked one from his belt, primed it, and threw. The grenades all bounced off the Hunters' armor plating, being just training grenades and unable to fuse to anything; they detonated on the ground, causing more harm than good. The armored Lekgolo continued their advance, firing from their cannons and decimating entire groups at a time.

Survivors scrambled to get behind cover, a few recollecting themselves enough to offer suppressing fire, but the shots had little to no effect on the massive beasts. Oriné watched helplessly as one of them took aim at his group; he and Lyt dived away in time, but his two Grunts were caught in the simulated blast and were rendered useless. The Elite Junior managed to scramble behind a wall before the Hunter could draw a bead on him, but he did not know where the Jackal had gone.

_Perhaps he has been hit, _he thought. Looking at the holographic HUD, he paled when he saw his shields had been reduced to a third of their power. For a moment he considered using his active camouflage, but then remembered it had been disabled for the Proof. Something about being unfair, he could not properly remember; the craze of the battle at hand was clouding his mind. He tried to fight through the fog, remember what his training told him to do, but the cloud was too thick. His arms felt heavy and unresponsive. Were it not for the surprised gasp that filled the air, he may have closed his eyes and pretended to be dead.

At the noise he peeked around the wall and saw that Olah 'Seroumee was standing alone in the middle of the open, the two Hunters a safe distance back. The armored spikes on their backs were raised in alarm, and though their weapons were aimed right at the Sangheili neither of them was firing. Even the pair at the entrance to the building had ceased their barrage.

Oriné saw that Olah's rifle lay discarded nearby, but the cadet smoothly reached behind him and drew his malier. With practiced ease he slid into a martial stance, prepared for a melee battle. The two Hunters exchanged looks, hesitating. Perhaps they feared injuring the Sangheili in a melee duel, or maybe they were simply incredulous at what was happening before them. Either way the lack of action was enough to motivate Olah into action: in a single leap he was right in front of the Lekgolo. They took a step back, clearly surprised, but the cadet simply slid to one side and jumped off the heel of one hoof, getting behind one of them. With a precise blow he struck the Hunter in the exposed orange flesh of its "back," making it stumble forward; a second forced the Hunter down, and it did not rise again. The other, recovering enough of its wits, charged forward, but Olah merely sidestepped the blind rush and repeated the maneuver, bringing down the second one. Neither of them made to get up, but audible groans could be heard.

By now the students behind cover began cheering, their morale restored. Oriné and his comrades raised their rifles and began firing on the surprised pair in the doorway, catching them by surprise and forcing them back. As one they charged up the stairs and into the building, swarming over the dangerously armored Lekgolo. While firing on the crowd, but with significantly less composure than before, more of the cadets got in behind them and attacked their weak backs. Less than a minute later both lay incapacitated on the ground.

That was when Squadron Seventeen's trap was sprung. Out of the shadows cast by the high windows the other squadron struck, catching Squadron Twenty-two in a dangerous crossfire. A few groups managed to make it to cover, but several, including Oriné, were caught in the open. With no other alternative the Elite Junior stood his ground, firing back with his rifle. His shields rang with alarm as they were steadily drained, so he took to moving about, ducking and sidestepping randomly in order to reduce the number of hits he took.

His shields were near depleted when a shape lunged out of the darkness. Barely having time to react, Oriné dropped his rifle instinctively and leaped back. As it came into the light, Oriné realized just who the shadow was.

"Rtas!" The older Elite Junior was holding his own nadier, whirling them about and striking at Oriné. Ducking and dodging he was able to avoid his friend's attacks, but a lucky strike hit him in the side, bringing his shields down to zero.

There was no time for words. Oriné spun away from another blow and drew his own dueling rods, raising them and blocking a double downward swing. The rods bounced off each other, jarring their forearms, but quickly the two swung again. Oriné forced his opponent into the defensive, making several fruitless strikes towards Rtas's abdominals; the Elite Junior reciprocated in kind, but was likewise blocked. All around them the battle raged, but out of respect none of the combatants were firing at the pair locked in a duel, it being too sacred a thing to interrupt. The two cadets fell into an awkward dance, both having skill yet lacking the grace that came with experience. They twirled and jumped over obstacles, ducking each other's blows and lashing out whenever possible.

_Duck.__ Thrust. __Parry.__ Thrust. __Slash, _thought Oriné, though words were beyond him at this point. He did not think, he just acted. _Slash. Cross. Back. __Step.__ Thrust. __Parry.__ Parry! PARRY! _Suddenly his arms seemed sluggish, stiff; they were not bringing the weapons back to deflect Rtas's incoming attack. Yet, at the last second, Oriné's body moved of its own volition, sliding him barely out of the way as his opponent put all his weight behind the thrust. As if the Forerunners were guiding his very movements his arms whistled through the empty air, Rtas sliding by in slow motion. The nadier reversed in his hands and he struck hard against the back of his friend's helmet. Rtas's scant shielding vanished and he fell forward, paralyzed.

Oriné sighed in relief, and slowly came back to the world. All around him, Squadron Seventeen either lay on the ground, incapacitated, or stood with their arms raised in surrender. They dropped their rifles and kicked them towards the center. Puzzled, the Elite Junior analyzed what remained of the battle-lines: Seventeen had them surrounded and outnumbered. Why were they admitting defeat?

A shrill tone blasted through the Hall of Eternity, sounding the end of the exercise. The cadets relaxed, and those on the ground groggily got to their feet. Several of their former opponents came and congratulated the members of Squadron Twenty-two, including Rtas, once he was upright again.

"That was an expert feint," the other Elite Junior said, rubbing the back of his neck. "You have never done that when we trained."

_That is because before today, I had no idea it was possible. _Instead of saying so, he only nodded and muttered something affirmative under his breath. Eventually the Major's voice boomed through their radios, ordering them to clear the battlefield before the next pair of squadrons up for their Proof of Combat entered.

As Oriné left Lyt suddenly materialized at his elbow. Suppressing his surprise, Oriné turned to see the Jackal giving him a stiff nod. "That was masterfully done," he hissed in his harsh tongue.

"What do you mean?" Oriné was still at a loss why the other squadron had abandoned what could have been certain victory.

The Kig-Yar clucked. "Eliminating their squadron commander," he said. "It is an honor usually reserved for your own squadron commander, is it not?"

Oriné felt himself go pale. Rtas had been Seventeen's squadron commander? He had not realized. Suddenly he remembered being pressed up against a wall by Olah, malier slowly grinding his windpipe inwards. With wide eyes he looked over to where his own squadron commander was standing, silently hoping he would not look in his direction. Yet the older Sangheili did, and for a moment Oriné was seized with fear; but then Olah nodded, ever so slightly. Oriné relaxed. It was all right.

As they filed out the Major met them in the corridor. "Squadron Twenty-two was the victor today," he said in his loud, deep voice, "but both sides fought with great honor. Do not fear this Proof, young ones, for you have passed.

"Commencement is in two days. Good luck to you all."

* * *

Yarna 'Orgalmee stood in front of the reflective hologram, fidgeting with his armor. It was brand new, which meant it was stiff as a board and about as easy to move around in. Anxiously he stretched and flexed his shoulders, trying to get them to loosen up before suddenly remembering that he would have to maintain a harsh at-attention pose for the entire ceremony. _So what's the point?_

He glanced back over the room, where forty-eight of his comrades were having similar problems. They moved about awkwardly but were going back and forth, congratulating each other on a job well done. Inwardly they all wished it was over and done with so they could go to the gala and the feast, and then to their ships; no one _really _wanted to be in their armor right now.

Except there was something to be proud of in the armor. Yarna looked back at his reflection and smiled. The armor was a deep cobalt blue, nicely reflecting the light cast by the overhead lamps.

Suddenly the hologram blurred as a shape appeared behind him; Yarna turned and saw Oriné 'Fulsamee, standing at attention but grinning so fiercely that the other worried one of his mandibles might break off.

"Well?" Oriné asked. "Tell me truly, dear Yarna, do I look fearsome enough to drive fear into the hearts of humans?"

Yarna grinned sardonically in return. "You could glass a planet with a look, Oriné. What of myself?"

His friend pretended to scrutinize him heavily, clicking his mandibles and pantomiming distress. "Blue does not accent your skin very well, I'm afraid. Perhaps you should go back to green?" Yarna punched him in the arm, but not hard enough to cause any actual damage. In truth, everyone was giddy with horror at the thought: after roughly three long years condemned to Institution, they were finally going to be shipped out. Their military careers began now.

"Were your parents able to attend?" Yarna asked.

Oriné winced visibly. "Unfortunately, no. They could not afford the passage. But they have given me their assurances that they will be watching via feed, so they will be with me in spirit." Yarna nodded, not wishing to discuss it further. Out of everyone in the room, Oriné had the most to worry about; his affair with the Head Master's daughter was well known. None of his comrades blamed him; they all agreed that Ekla had been at fault, and had even been leading him on the entire time. Though he remained quiet about it, Yarna sensed that he still held feelings for her deep within his heart. Many of the cadets who passed him grabbed his shoulder and said comforting words, but it was clear that he was incredibly nervous.

_He has every right to be, _Yarna thought. Oriné had fought with honor and courage in all his time at Institution, never faltering but that once. Surely the Head Master would see what a valuable soldier he would be, and perhaps at worst send him on a two-month tour in the Moon Guard. It was rumored that he wasn't going to allow Oriné to be promoted, but because he defeated the enemy squadron leader, the Head Master had no choice but to allow it or make himself look poor. Then again, Ekla had been his daughter, not only his flesh and blood but a valuable political bargaining chip. She could be married off to cement ties between families or to patch up slights and misgivings, but few takers would be interested in "soiled" goods.

Yarna shook his head. The realm of politics made him ill. How his father could be drawn to it, he'd never know. Perhaps he'd ask him tonight; both his father and mother would be in attendance.

Across the room the door hummed as it opened, and two figures dressed in the crimson armor of the Elite Major strode in. The first was the Sangheili known only as "the Major," as he had never offered his real name, and none of the then-Elite Juniors had been privileged to know it; none of them really wanted to anyway. The second figure was far more familiar: Olah 'Seroumee. For his consistently outstanding performance in every field he was bypassing the Elite Minor rank.

At their entry, every Sangheili in the room dropped what they were doing and saluted the pair rigidly. They were no longer cadets, green rookies fresh from Jisako; when in the presence of their superiors, not even the subtle nudging and whispered jokes were allowed. They were Elite Juniors no longer.

Now they were Elite Minors.

It was not the Major who spoke, but Olah. "Warriors, your ears!" The soldiers remained quiet and attentive. "We are about to begin commencement. Follow me to the grand assembly hall." He turned and strode out of the room. The Elite Minors hastily arranged themselves into a neat, tight formation appropriate for walking through the halls, and filed out of the room. Most of them would return to gather various items after the Commencement but before the gala. Their assignments would include a ship they would reside on, and they could have their possessions sent to their cabins.

They marched through the halls, passing several of the faculty and staff who paused to watch. A few favored them with half-bows or nods of approval, but most just looked on and smiled. Yarna did not move his head, but rotated his eyes to watch; he couldn't acknowledge them, for doing so would be improper.

When they ceased, they found themselves to be third in line, with two squadrons up ahead. As a fourth fell in behind them, Yarna took the opportunity to briefly touch foreheads with Oriné.

"Do not despair," he whispered. "All is not lost. You are a warrior of our Lords, with all their strength." Oriné nodded in return, but didn't say anything, returning his gaze forward. Yarna's lingered on his friend's features, but did the same after only a moment's hesitation. The wait was long, and as they waited Yarna could not help but fill his head with thoughts and daydreams of glory. Marching on new worlds, slaying heretical humans, watching as they burned to cinders under orbital bombardment... all the while his own honor would grow and grow. And one day, after hard work and sacrifice, he would be offered the coveted position of Honor Guard. He tried to imagine himself in the red and gold of the station, with the glowing flashes adorning his helmet and pauldrons, holding the ceremonial spear; but the idea excited him too much, and he found himself fidgeting. Quickly he corrected his posture and recomposed himself. His hopes would only become a reality if he fought and gained favor with the Hierarchs and the Forerunners.

Up ahead a shout rang out, and the squadron commanders, all Elite Majors, relayed the order to the warriors. "Prepare!" Olah shouted. "On my signal, march!" No signal seemed to be required, in actuality, for as soon as the line ahead of them moved the rest followed suit. In such a formation did they march into the majestic hall, with all the eyes of the Covenant upon them, it felt like. In actuality, it was probably a much smaller fraction.

Utter discipline was maintained in the lines, and the pace was constant and quick. Somewhere up ahead, probably on the main dais, someone blew a war horn, a long and low note that hovered over their heads. Yarna was aware of the crowds on all sides, but dared not turn to look or even rotate his eye. He was situated in the middle of a line with Oriné to his left anyhow, and wouldn't be able to see much of anything.

They soon came to a stop, turned, and began filling in close to the dais. It was the same round central platform they had witnessed upon their first arrival, Yarna realized, thinking back to so long ago. He had been scrawny then, he and all his comrades, all only a few weeks removed from Jisako. Surprise flashed across his mind; had it really been three years since then? A year and a half for Rank Three, and then about equal time of nine months for Ranks Two and One. Had their training been accelerated? His father always spoke of the four to five years he had spent here. There was a pang of worry in his mind as he wondered why new soldiers would be needed so soon, but he quickly banished it. It would not do to think of such things, especially now.

There _was _a Prophet on the platform, but he was unfamiliar and certainly much older than Regret had been. He wore the robes of a Hierarch, however. Beside him stood a councilor that he likewise didn't recognize, the Fleet Master Lyos 'Vadumee, and a figure clad in golden armor with emerald trim, with a matching cloak. It took him a moment to realize the figure was the Head Master of Institution. Unconsciously he glanced at Oriné, who was himself staring at the powerful figure standing upon the dais, but the cloaked official was too wrapped up in his conversation with the other three figures present to notice the slack-jawed looks of two Minors.

Finally all the soldiers were where they needed to be, in a circular formation around the platform and looking up. Last-minute nudges, forehead touches, and words of luck were quickly exchanged, but all fell silent as the Head Master strode forward. He looked out over the sea of former students and spectators, nodding with approval. Taking a step back he was in the direct center of the platform; the other figures filed off the stage, taking their places right at the base.

"Warriors," the Head Master began. His voice was of a surprising tenor, a higher pitch than what was expected. "Please, allow me be the first to congratulate you on your successful completion of training. It has been a hard and harrowing journey through the art of Combat, over the mountain of Knowledge, and down the road of Faith. You should be commended for your speedy and total mastery of these concepts that were lain before you when you were new, the soft skin of youth only having just been hardened by the harsh desert winds. Now you shall carry the weapons of a warrior, the tools of our Sacred Lords, and with them you shall purge the galaxy of all heresy.

"Our war with the humans draws closer to its end, we can all sense it. And with their destruction we will come one step closer to the Great Journey. You will be the soldier to end it. With the training you've had here, you shall have the power to destroy all heresy in the galaxy, and pave the way for the Great Journey." A mighty cry erupted from the horde of soldiers, shouting their enthusiasm. A grace passed over the Head Master's face as he stepped back. Fleet Master 'Vadumee came forward.

"In ancient times, when a Sangheili warrior proved himself through battle he would be given a new, unblooded sword," the massive Elite said. "We no longer have any use of metal blades, but the tradition remains." He nodded upwards; a large case floated down in a wave of inverted gravity. He stepped aside as it alighted on the dais. The aged Prophet floated up on his gravity throne, waved his hand over the case and muttered a prayer. He nodded back to the Head Master, who once again stepped forward.

"As we announce your name, step forward and accept your assignment and sword," he said. A hologram flickered to life in front of his eyes and he began to scan through it. He called out a name, and the named Sangheili would step up onto the dais. 'Vadumee would bellow his achievements and assignment, the councilor would hand him his sword from the case, and the Head Master would say something to the Elite. With that he would step down, return to his place in line, and wait.

The process was long and arduous, and Yarna found his attention beginning to wander. Dimly he was aware of the Fleet Master's son being given high honors, being an Elite Major, but it wasn't until he heard Olah's name called that he returned to the world.

_They're on our line now, _he realized as he watched the crimson-armored Sangheili march up to the platform. As he stepped up he bowed quickly to both the Head Master and the Fleet Master.

"Olah 'Seroumee commences with High Honors as an Elite Major," 'Vadumee called out, "as the squadron commander for the esteemed Squadron Twenty-two, he has commanded over one hundred successful missions and led his warriors against all manner of opponents. He is to be assigned to the holy carrier _Transcendent Voyager_, to be deployed in action on the front lines in the S'gor Legion." Olah bowed and walked to the councilor, who withdrew a sword from the case and handed it over. Bowing again, he made his way past the Head Master who said something to him and made his way down.

Two names later, and Yarna heard his name. Struggling to keep his pace measured and even he strode towards the dais. As he went he saw out of the corner of his eye the Prophet slumped in his chair, seemingly asleep. However, he dared not turn his head to look; to draw attention to him would be dishonorable. Instead he managed to make it up to the platform and manage his bows.

"Yarna 'Orgalmee is commencing with Honors as an Elite Minor," Fleet Master 'Vadumee said, "as a prominent member of Squadron Twenty-two. He has fought in over one hundred battles and come out in honorable triumph in sixty-four of them. He shall be assigned to the holy carrier _Transcendent Voyager_, to be deployed against heresy in the S'gor Legion." Yarna bowed, took his sword, and walked up to the Head Master.

"You have done well, young warrior," the elder Sangheili assured him. However, a dark look flashed in his eyes as he continued. "Be wary of whom you keep as a friend." A chill settled in his stomach, but he managed to bow and retreat from the dais. As he took his place, however, he heard Oriné's name.

To his credit, the younger Elite Minor did not flinch as he walked up to the platform, nor did he quake as he took his place before the Fleet Master and bowed to both him and the Head Master. For a moment, a pained expression crossed Lyos 'Vadumee's face. But he quickly composed himself, puffed out his chest, and bellowed.

"Oriné 'Fulsamee is commencing with High Honors as an Elite Minor, as a critical member of Squadron Twenty-two. He has, in his hundreds of battles, fought with only honor, chivalry, and distinction. He has shown proficiency with his rifle and his malier, and on four separate occasions he succeeded in besting other squadron commanders." For a moment, Yarna's spirits lifted. It was an impressive battle record, even for only simulated encounters. Surely the Head Master could not waste such talent?

The stricken look returned to 'Vadumee's face. "He shall be assigned to the cruiser _Blind Devotion_, and will serve on the orbital station _Devil's Gulag _to punish captured heretics."

Yarna's stomach dropped, and he caught the subtle exasperation of his squad mates out of the corner of his eye. Gulag duty. They had been cautioned against it, as the most dishonorable duty that could be issued at the Commencement ceremonies. Time seemed to move slowly as Oriné bowed, retrieved his sword, and bowed to the Head Master. It didn't appear that the elder Sangheili said anything; all that Yarna could see was a vicious scowl on his face. Oriné stepped down and walked back to his spot.

The rest of the ceremony went completely past Yarna. He could only look at his friend, trying to discern his mood. However, the younger Elite Minor had no facial expression: he only stared dead ahead with what looked like intent interest. Yarna didn't know what to do. He dared not nudge him, not while they were at attention.

Final words were given by the Fleet Master and the Head Master, the latter of which sounded almost relieved. With a bark, 'Vadumee dismissed the former cadets, and revelry broke out on the spot. The spectators surged forward to embrace family members who had been now officially promoted, while well-wishers formed a ring around the massive crowd. As the chaos erupted Yarna almost immediately lost track of Oriné; whether he had managed to slip through the people or just simply vanished, he didn't know.

Before he could look, however, a powerful hand seized him from behind and turned him around, two powerful arms seizing him in an embrace. He squawked in surprise before realizing the person who had hugged him was his mother.

"Oh, my son! My wonderful son!" Oslu Gal cried, wetness in her eyes. "You have done so well! Your father is so proud! The slaves at home gossip constantly about how great a warrior you will become!"

"Mother!" He struggled to free himself before the big woman finally let go. "Is father here?"

She rolled her eyes. "Yes, but he has gone to speak with his councilor friend and Fleet Master 'Vadumee. He has our assurances that he will be at the feast, however." _Oh yes, the feast, _Yarna reminded himself. Though he could not see Oriné in the crowd mixed with civilians and soldiers, perhaps he would be at the feast.

However, he did not appear. The families of the now-promoted soldiers were ushered into the incredibly large Hall of Eternity, where they had fought their final battle and which was now reconfigured to feed thousands of mouths. Grand tapestries depicting various famous warriors who had graduated from Institution and their most glorious moments hung from the ceiling, waving and flickering occasionally as the generators showed their age. The courses were vibrant, delicious gourmet, a far cry from what was usually served in the cadets' cafeterias. At various tables different holographic recordings of key moments in battles played, drawing the scrutiny of veteran Elites and causing jests and arguments to break out among the new soldiers.

As his father got into the wine and began scouring the recordings for his son, Yarna searched frantically for Oriné. A great many of the recordings featuring Squadron Twenty-two openly displayed his valor, and all around Yarna's comrades were questioning the sense in allowing such an accomplished cadet to be shuffled to the rear. Yet despite all the misgivings present, the soldier in question was nowhere to be found.

After only a short time he excused himself and began to stalk through the corridors. He recalled the fond memories he had formed not so long ago, with his comrades in arms and specifically with Oriné. Unconsciously he made his way back to the bunk room. It was eerily empty, though the personal items of everybody was still present, still slightly skewed out of place as if they were all going to return at any moment and go to sleep at curfew.

That is, everybody's belongings except for one. Oriné's Lumidex, nadier, and his peculiar human book were gone.


	8. Dream Killer

**Author's Note: I'd like to thank everyone for their support and concern in getting this chapter written. All the kind reviews really touched me and helped me keep going. This was a difficult chapter to write, and not just because of outside influence (though there was plenty of that). I know I promised this chapter much sooner than I have it now, and I apologize for my fellow Swede whom I told that this chapter would be ready before New Year's.**

**Also, I've gone back and changed the name of the Sangheili homeworld to "Sanghelios," since that's what the Bestiarum says. Bungie told me to do it. Yell at them, not me. But there may also be formatting errors, so if you see any, let me know.**

**Enjoy the story. Next update shouldn't be as long in coming.**

Chapter 8: Dream Killer

The halls of the cruiser seemed small and cramped, and depressing. Oriné 'Fulsamee found his room without help from the Deck Master, dropping his meager belongings on his bunk and gazing at the dingy quarters. Though it had been announced as a cruiser at commencement it was in actuality a frigate, capable of staffing two-hundred and fifty warriors, though from the looks of things it crewed far less. There was a chance that, of the four bunks in the room, only his would be occupied.

After abandoning his friends and the gala besides, he had wandered about before finally deciding to find the ship _Blind Devotion_. He hadn't been impressed with it when he saw it, but then, what was the point? Impressing him was the last thing it would do. He had been condemned by the Head Master to a slow death. Thinking about it a new wave of shame had struck him: his parents had been watching the ceremony. What would they think of him now? He had never informed them of his affair with Ekla, so it was likely they wouldn't know why. Perhaps he could play the victim…

_No, _he thought, shaking his head. How personally dishonorable would it be if he were to lie to his own parents? He had no honor left; whatever scraps he could bring together would be sacred; he had to protect it.

Dejectedly he fell back and sank into the gel, and fell into a fitful sleep. When he was roused, it was less than gently by the boot of the Deck Master.

"The Ship Commander wishes to speak with you," the crimson-armored Sangheili growled. "Meet him on the bridge."

Oriné forced himself to be upright when he walked through the halls despite the weight of his shame on his shoulders. Whenever he passed by another Elite he felt judged, each another blow against him.

However, at one point he passed by an observation window. The ship was already underway, it seemed, getting itself further away from Institution before it could slip into the alternate space. Oriné stood there for a good while, looking out and watching until the deck shuddered beneath his feet and a white film descended over the window. When it had passed, there was only a black void beyond.

A short journey later he found himself standing in front of the door leading to the bridge. He pressed the chime, and was summoned inside. Within he saw the command deck, the raised platform in the center of the bridge area, where a golden-armored Elite Zealot stood, hands clasped behind his back, staring at the various screens and readouts before him.

When the doors had closed, the Zealot turned and regarded the Elite Minor. "You are Oriné 'Fulsamee?"

Oriné spied the glowing markings on his armor and bowed. "Yes, Excellency." The other Elite was the Ship Commander, in charge of the ship when the Ship Master had more pressing duties or perhaps just did not care to bother with the drudging task of maintaining the ship when there was no combat or glory to be had.

"Are you aware why you have been set upon this vessel, why you are underway to such a dreary destination?"

_Is everyone out to shame me? _"Yes, Excellency."

"Very well." The Ship Commander huffed and turned away. "You have full access to the habitation level, the meditation garden, and the galley as you see fit. However, you are restricted from all other decks. Understood?"

"Yes Excellency," Oriné said, still bowed. "Thank you, Excellency."

"You are dismissed." The cobalt-armored Elite Minor turned and left the bridge, hurrying to escape that wretched place. When he was in the hallway, though, he couldn't escape the heavy feeling in his chest. Glumly he trudged back through the corridors to his quarters and found that, still, no one had come to claim any of the other bunks. His hand traced over a glyph in the wall and three illumination panels lit up above his head. He dropped into his bed, removing his helmet and lying back, staring up at the underside of the other gel bed.

_What horrible existence is this? _It wasn't fair. He had just made that one mistake, a simple and tiny error when compared to the rest of life in the galaxy, when compared to the Forerunners' design. How had it all gone so wrong?

Unconsciously he reached over and seized the human book he had purchased in High Charity. It felt like it had been so long ago… had it really only been less than a year? He tried to forget about Ekla, to move on, but every so often she resurfaced in his thoughts and tormented him. At night he sometimes dreamed about her soft caresses and her light laughter…

A growl rose in his throat. Here he was, doing it again. How pathetic was he? Other Sangheili males could simply move from one prospective mate to another; why was he still hung up on her? He had no answers for himself.

Oriné sighed and looked at the cover of the book. It was rough leather with inlaid gold lettering in the sharp human glyphic. He flipped it open and found that inside was a much thinner paper with black ink printing, but the difference was negligible: he still could not read it. His experience in human studies, however, didn't fail him entirely. By the general format and feel of the book he judged it to be older than it seemed, probably a book that had been passed on for several generations.

He contented to flip page by page, eyes skimming over all the text. The symbols repeated constantly, and Oriné counted fifty-two of the bigger symbols and approximately twenty-four of the smaller ones. A few of the bigger symbols resembled each other. There were ones that were twice the size of others and the majority of them seemed to occur after the small dot, though others seemed to happen at random. Some were preceded by odd hanging marks, others by small partial loops at the bottom of the line, and still others just standing tall in the middle of a line. It was terribly confusing and, at times, tedious. How could the humans stand to look at such uniform text, let alone procure any sort of enjoyment from it?

Yet he was entranced, going page by page, recognizing the symbols over and over again. Time passed without his knowledge until his hunger grew so great he felt it clench an iron fist over his stomach. He rose from his bed, stretching his back, arms, and mandibles in one movement before leaning on his legs to work out any possible knots. Before he left the room he placed a small marker on the last page where he had ceased his investigation.

The galley was in the same mood as the rest of the ship: dark, brooding, and depressing. The food was of a poor quality as well: the kashalai had been overcooked, but Oriné wasn't feeling all too picky. He needed sustenance, and this would do. Field rations, he had heard, were even worse. Easing himself into a seat beside a row of fellow Minors he nodded his greeting and began scooping the fried worms into his mouth.

No one spoke to him, but here and there was a muttering and a hand motion. There was a jest that was beyond Oriné, but the Elite sitting next to him leaned into him and nudged him with a shoulder, chuckling. The clack of armor filled the hall as the conglomeration of Sangheili ate. There were no Unggoy or Kig-Yar, and certainly no Jiralhanae. The Grunts and Jackals probably had their own galleys as they had their own dormitories as well.

His meal was finished quickly and he exited, heading back to his bunk. When he arrived, he found the food had added a weight to his mind that made him feel sluggish, almost bloated. After a moment of trying to read his book he finally put it aside, removed his helmet, and settled into the gel of the bed.

* * *

The remainder of the trip was fairly uneventful. Nobody made any particular attempt to get to know Oriné, and likewise the young warrior did not attempt to befriend any of the others. When not eating or exercising he stayed in his lonely bunk, reading the human book until he got a headache, at which point he would nap and resume upon awakening. He remained unbothered by outsiders, a fact which he was grateful for: if anyone had intruded, they certainly would have inquired about the book.

After a week of travel, the _Blind Devotion _arrived at _Devil's Gulag_, and Oriné quickly disembarked. He was not surprised to find the station was even more grimy and filthy than the cruiser: the metal was tarnished, the floor looking severely burnt and cracked; the walls were bare, in some places with paneling removed so one could observe the conduits beyond. Everything was the standard violet and steel colors of the Covenant and no effort whatsoever had been made to decorate it or make it more livable.

A soft chime sounded in his ear and the universally recognized Covenant computer assistant began speaking. For once, Oriné was happy to hear the familiar voice. "Oriné 'Fulsamee, arrival from Institution," it droned on, "report to level C, barracks two for assignment." Nodding to no one in particular, Oriné proceeded as directed, locating a gravity lift. Surprisingly he realized that these gravity lifts were not dually directed like Institution's, or possessed of differing "flows" like High Charity or large cruiser gravity lifts; instead two operated beside one another, one exclusively going up and the other exclusively going down.

_They must not expect much traffic, _the Sangheili decided, and stepped into one going up. Level C was only two levels above him and was composed entirely of four barracks sections, and from what Oriné could tell, they were not all full. When he located the second section he stepped in and gazed around: of the room's capacity for thirty, only seventeen of the bunks were occupied. Their occupants had been lazing, some lying down and dozing while others sat and talked, a few squatting on the floor and playing a game of Rocnas'al.

However, Oriné's arrival had broken their lackadaisical routine, and they all turned to stare at the newcomer. Under the uncomfortable of seventeen scrutinizing looks the young warrior stopped, held his place, and shifted uncomfortably. All movement within the barracks stopped.

Finally he managed to speak. "Greetings."

Those inside exchanged looks and one seemed to make to rise, but a coolness fell across Oriné's neck and he turned to see the tallest, bulkiest Sangheili he had ever seen standing behind him in crimson armor. His arms were crossed and his golden eyes set into a squint.

"A newcomer?" he growled, and Oriné felt a stone settle in his stomach. The warrior's voice was gravelly, raspy, as if he had just swallowed fire. The look in his eyes did little to dissuade the newly arrived Sangheili that he had not. As it were, all Oriné could do was manage a nod and pray he was spared too severe a beating.

The Major's arms unwound from each other and a hand came down. Oriné braced himself for the blow, but found himself quite unprepared for the hand to open up and lay itself gently on his shoulder. With a small gasp of surprise Oriné looked up again to see that the Sangheili was now smiling warmly where before there had been only a harsh scowl.

"Welcome to the unit," he said.

* * *

Following a brief introduction session, Major 'Qulahtee had brought Oriné down a few levels to what Oriné came to understand as his post aboard the station. His assignment, as it turned out, was to act as Watchman for the armory, where he would record equipment requests and transfers. It was simple to the point of being tedious, the larger Sangheili explained, but not a disagreeable job.

"You shall have many and more opportunities to get to know the beings on this station," 'Qulahtee told him as he showed him his station: a terminal located beside the great door leading into the armory. Oriné immediately realized the tactical position of it, allowing him to see all activity coming and going. And once he had toured the armory, he realized his duties did not extend only to weapons, but to general supplies as well. He essentially had the entire non-essential inventory at his command… and under his supervision.

"The process is thus," 'Qulahtee instructed him. "When someone wishes to requisition equipment they must fill out a proper form and have it filed in your database. For an Unggoy or Kig-Yar to pick it up they must have the proper authorization, which will be noted on the form. Otherwise any creature may retrieve it. Once retrieved you must make note of the item's use and, if a temporary requisition, the approximate amount of time before the item will be returned. However, if it is not going to be returned, then you will need to record the loss so another may be ordered. On the requisition form there is a field defining the purpose of the removal, but you needn't worry about that.

"By and large, this duty will be without stress," the Major continued, resting his hands on the opposite side of the terminal. "Your working period will be eight hours. Be mindful that this will be your primary duty, not your _only _one; the other time left in the day may be put to other uses." 'Qulahtee gave Oriné a curt nod. "You will find it not to be too strenuous, however. I wish you well, and I shall see you back at quarters later." With that he turned and strode off, leaving Oriné to stand at the terminal and, over time, puzzle over the controls. They were sparse and, from the looks of it, fairly intuitive.

He settled himself behind his station, noting the lack of a chair but not missing it; at Institution he and the other Juniors had been made to stand at attention for hours on end, either as punishment or practice. Standing leisurely behind his terminal would be much more relaxing.

_Perhaps,_ he mused, _this won't be too terrible at all._

* * *

The Unggoy quarter was not grouped with the other dormitories on _Devil's Gulag_, even though it was easily the biggest one there. The Sangheili and Kig-Yar dormitories were fairly large as well, as they were the second most populous species on the station. After them in size came the Jiralhanae and Lekgolo quarters; few Jiralhanae ever staffed the station at any given moment, and the allowance of space for Lekgolo was purely ceremonial, in case any were ever on one of the small ships that made port. None of the twelve-foot tall armored warriors were kept on the station.

But there was another reason for the Unggoy exile that didn't have to do with size ratio: atmosphere. Their home world, Balaho, was rich in methane, and it was in this concoction of gases that the Grunts could breathe freely, without the need for bulky aids. However, besides being utterly toxic for the other races, methane was highly explosive; if a wayward spark were to ignite the gases the blast could have easily blown the station apart.

So the Unggoy quarter was moved to the very "bottom" of the station, at the end of the docking extension, where such a detonation would minimize damage to the station or any docked vessels. It also meant that the way down was longer and more trying for the five-foot Grunts than it was for any of the other species present, having to brave several rail-deprived walkways and many perilous ladders, not to mention a faltering mechanical elevator for the last leg of the journey. It often broke down, leaving unfortunate Unggoy stranded until repair crews deigned to fix the problem; this was often perilous for the Grunts, as their tanks had limited life spans.

It was after such a near-death experience that one Unggoy, disgruntled and weary, trudged into the misty and cold dormitory. He shrugged off his scuffed triangular harness and placed it in a small stasis field beside many like-colored orange ones. With care he released his breather from his face and set it on the tip of the unit, and then breathed deeply. The methane was stale and recycled, having been purified and pumped into the space again and again for at least a month, but a replacement tank was expected soon… whenever they could manage to remember to send one down.

Relieved of his burden he waddled over to an empty couch and eased himself down into the padding. Three of his kind were nearby, but one was asleep and the other two engaged in a conversation, undoubtedly about the poor quality of the food nipple. He was about to nod off himself when a clawed hand tapped him on the shoulder. With a look he determined the newcomer to be his acquaintance, Gatgat.

"We have work to do, Rurut," the Grunt said.

Rurut tried to curl up into a ball. "I'm finished working."

"The Elites ordered us to go to the holding deck."

"I was already at the holding deck! I scrubbed blood off the vents! What more could they ask of me?" That had only been one of his tasks, in fact; the others had involved heavy lifting, including dragging several newly-ordered anti-matter charges into the armory. He and his brethren had struggled but finally managed to get them into their holding stations near the door.

"They want us to watch the prisoners," Gatgat said, once more prodding Rurut with his claw. The latter snarled and swiped at his companion, but Gatgat simply stepped backwards and allowed the hand to strike only empty air. "You know what they do to insubordinate Grunts, don't you?"

Rurut didn't need reminding. His broodmate, Yagyaw, had defied an Elite's orders once, and paid the ultimate price. Rurut could still hear the screaming; still see the barely recognizable body of his brother on the floor, fluorescent blue blood dripping between the grating. Even worse, Rurut had been ordered to clean it up.

With a heavy sigh, the Grunt lifted himself from his comfortable position. Shooting his companion an undeserved dirty look he waddled back over to his harness and shrugged it on. The pair headed for the elevator and rode it up as far as it could go, using the ladders and walkways for the rest of the journey.

* * *

Three hours into his duty shift, Oriné had revised his opinion. _This is Hell_, he discovered. Already there had been twenty attempts at supply retrievals, and only four of them had gone flawlessly. The others had become complicated and elongated endeavors as Oriné fumbled his way through the system, trying to decipher what meant what. In the process of trying to fill one order he summarily deleted three others in waiting, forcing them to resubmit their paperwork.

One Elite Major had accosted him, threatening to dually report him to 'Qulahtee while running him through with an energy sword. All Oriné could do was assure him that the supplies he was looking for was prepared; all he had to do was specify what it was, exactly, he was looking for. As it so turned out he was only looking for a replacement anti-gravity generator for his Type-32 Rapid Assault Vehicle.

Beyond that, however, the shift turned out to be dreadfully boring. When his eight hours were up he was glad as he notified the Sangheili in charge of the armory and took his leave. Once he had returned to the Sangheili quarter he found 'Qulahtee.

"I have finished my duty shift, Excellency," Oriné said.

"Good," the Major replied, looking up from his Lumidex. "There is nothing else for you to do for the day. If something comes up I shall inform you." He nodded. "Dismissed." Oriné saluted and walked out, suddenly finding himself in possession of a queer thing: free time. For a moment he was unsure of what to do; surely there were training facilities on the station, but he felt no need to exercise his muscles.

So, instead, he wandered back to his bunk and retrieved the human book. He turned it over in his hands. The rough cover felt nice against his skin. Furtively he glanced around, ensuring that no Sangheili eyes were watching him, and then opened the book. The letters were still the same as they had been on the _Blind Devotion_: simple, structured, and illegible.

Holding the book in hand he made his way down the gravity lift to the meager meditation gardens. Once inside he took his place on a bench, said a quick devotion, and opened the book. Perhaps, he thought distantly, it would be considered heresy to bring a heretic's tome into a sacred place such as this, but for once Oriné could not bother himself to work up enough anxiety to find another compartment. He was already comfortable.

Once more he became lost in the book. He could not rightly understand the words, but already he was getting a sort of feeling from them. Just from what he could puzzle out they were telling a story, some type of narrative, he believed. Oriné flipped through the pages, drinking in the glyphs and trying to comprehend their greater meaning.

For hours he sat there reading; at one point, for comfort's sake, he removed his helmet and set it on the bench beside him. Yet no matter how long he read the book, no matter how intensely he focused on the material in front of him, he simply could not decipher it.

_Without a key or codex, there is no hope I can discover what it says_, he realized glumly, but did not relinquish the book. Instead he felt himself be drawn even further into it.

Oriné was so caught up in his book that, when the door to the gardens chimed open and a large shadow fell across him, he didn't even realize it. It wasn't until a booming voice right above him spoke his name that he came to and realized that Major 'Quhlatee was standing over him, gazing down with a concerned look on his face.

"Are you all right, warrior?" he asked.

"Y-Yes, Excellency," Oriné stammered, quickly closing the book and placing it on the bench, covering the title with his palm. "I am fine. What are you doing down here?"

"I came to find you," the Major said. "I've been trying to raise you on the communications band." Confused at first, Oriné glanced over to his discarded helmet and realized with a start that by taking off the headgear he had effectively disconnected himself from the ComNet and unwittingly denied his commanding officer's attempts at contact. Apparently his shock and guilt registered on his face, for 'Quhlatee chuckled, a deep sound.

"It's all right, warrior," he said. "It was nothing too important, only if you wished to accompany us to the mess hall." The crimson-armored Sangheili cocked his head and looked beneath Oriné's hand, attempting to get a look at what it was he was hiding. "Apparently you found something more entertaining." As Oriné tried to move the book the Major reached down and snatched it up. A tense moment ensued as 'Quhlatee stared wordlessly at the book and the younger Elite Minor fidgeted on the bench.

"Well," the crimson-armored Sangheili said at last. "This _is _interesting."

"Excellency, I—"

He looked down at Oriné. "No need to explain, warrior." 'Quhlatee motioned for the younger one to rise. "I believe there is somewhere we must go."

* * *

Rurut squeaked in boredom. Guard duty was dreadfully dull, and though his mental fatigue was irritating he knew it was far better than being stationed on the front lines where he would be used as mere cannon fodder for the humans' guns.

As he trudged along he glanced from left to right at each cell. The translucent purple barriers were all intact and wouldn't allow anything in or out… if there was anything to get in or out, that is. Only a few humans were still here, most bloodied and bruised and near death. They sat silent, resigned to their fate, in the corners of the cells, moping to themselves, nursing new burns, or simply sitting there and staring at the wall.

He finished his brief patrol and ambled his way into the guard station. A mind-numbed Elite Minor sat within, staring off into space; undoubtedly he was daydreaming of winning glory and honor on some far off world, leading troops and commanding Unggoy to their deaths.

_Despicable_.

"Excellency," Rurut said. "I have completed the patrol. There is nothing to report. Everything is functioning perfectly."

The Sangheili started in his seat, having been so occupied with his daydream that he failed to realize the Grunt had wandered in. Turning he nodded to the Unggoy. "Very well, do one last patrol and you may go to the rest station. Be alert, however; I might have need of you."

_Need of me for what? _Rurut thought bitterly as he bowed and exited. _To scrub the walls and floors? To tap on the force fields to make sure they're working properly?_ He walked down the hall, barely glancing at the cells, and exited on the other end. He turned a corner and walked through an open door to where the other Unggoy who had been called for guard duty were reclining. A few jabbered at each other, deep in a discussion, but most just napped.

Rurut was just about to settle himself in when he heard a door open. _Peculiar, there aren't supposed to be any more patrols_. He edged to the door and peeked out, curious as to the origin of the unknown sound. What he saw were two Sangheili, an Elite Minor and an Elite Major, conversing in low tones, walking slowly towards the hall Rurut had just returned from. At this distance he could only catch a few words, but once they went into the hall the Unggoy was able to sneak closer.

"Excellency, I can explain, please…"

The crimson-armored Sangheili shook his head. "I've told you before, Oriné, you need not justify yourself. Look around you. What do you see?"

Passing just out of eyesight, there was a pause before the Minor, this Oriné fellow, answered. "A prison block, Excellency, but why…?"

"Inside the cells."

Another pause, and a barely uttered "Oh" followed. The Major, still half in view, nodded. "Yes. This is the function of the gulags: we keep captured humans here for interrogation. From these installations we have learned much of their history, their society, and"—he held up something Rurut couldn't see—"their language. If you'd like to study them, this is the best place for it."

The Minor spoke again. "Excellency, this… would you permit me?"

"Certainly. There are only three humans here now, but more may come. And we have all our files from previous interrogation sessions on the network. You may study until your heart is content.

"For now, however, I must insist you eat something. Research is best done on a full stomach and with a clear mind." The Major turned and began to come back, prompting Rurut to spring back and hasten his way back to the rest station. As he watched the two shadows pass from the safety of the room he sat back and pondered what he had just heard.

* * *

Over the course of the next few days, Oriné immersed himself in studying whenever he could. Once he completed armory duty for the day and confirmed that, at least tentatively, he had no pending assignments, he would head down to the prison level and begin reviewing the data present in the network. As the sleepy guard simply dazed off at his post the younger Elite Minor would be perusing the archives and watching old recorded interrogation sessions. He had already absorbed the summaries and reports written up by the Sangheili who had administered the torture and absorbed the data, but Oriné wasn't convinced that they might have skimmed over details.

Slowly he was compiling a much deeper working knowledge of the human language. When they spoke it was in a quick and heavy tongue, not ridiculously far from the Jiralhanae's native language. However there were several exceptions within their speech patterns that suggested their current language was a conglomeration of other dialects; some spoke with different accents as well.

When he discovered this, Oriné had devoted a full night into a deeper consideration of human oral anatomy. He discovered that their jaw-and-palette configuration allowed for a greater range of sounds than the Sangheili, who had no palette and whose tongues were concealed deeper in their throats.

He repeatedly listened to audio recordings of the humans speaking and tried to recreate the sounds. At first it was frustrating and nigh-impossible to do, until he learned to move his lower mandibles in harmony to simulate their lower jaws and use his upper mandibles to do what their tongues did to the best of his ability. After hours of practice his voice came out stilted and heavy with accent… but the words were undeniably human.

Gradually he picked up on the meaning of some words too, and began forming a rudimentary lexicon of the language using a Lumidex and practicing the words every night. Major 'Quhlatee had told him, on their way down to the prison block that first day, that most higher-ranking Elites knew the human language and assigned specific people to teach it to their troops, so many front line warriors knew more or less how to speak it; but Oriné knew, without such demand here, he'd be hard pressed to catch up. So he studied extra hard, sometimes even sneaking a file into the roster of supplies when at his armory station so he could study when there was nothing better to do.

But soon, even that was not enough.

After his duty station one day, and after completing a harrowing space walk-and-repair mission, he approached Major 'Quhlatee.

"Excellency," Oriné began, "I would like to speak with a human."

The Major looked up from his Lumidex. "An interrogation?"

"Akin to that, yes," Oriné replied. "I'm trying to understand their language. I think… _interrogating _one would be the best opportunity I have to really experience how they use their language."

'Quhlatee paused for a moment and then said something Oriné didn't recognize. When the Elite Minor cocked his head and extended his lower mandibles in a sign of confusion, the Major only chuckled. "That is one of their curses, and one of many that will be undoubtedly thrown at you. If you wish to schedule an interrogation, you may do so. The cruiser _Truth and Reconciliation _has contacted us to let us know they have a few more humans that may know vital information. Once the regular interrogators have finished you may do what you will."

Oriné bowed in thanks, saluted, and left.

It was several more days before the interrogation schedule was cleared, and when it was, he placed his request. The confirmation arrived via network as he was working at the armory; the suddenness caught him by surprise and he nearly dropped a small crate of plasma grenades, much to the dismay of the Unggoy who had come to pick them up. Once the little creature was calmed down and the crate properly stored on the gravity trolley Oriné let him go and quickly sent his response:

"Affirmative, interrogation session confirmed. I shall be there later today. Any human will do."

He kept his word. At the preordained time he entered the small interrogation room. It looked no different than any other room on the station and indeed resembled the size of a large supply cabinet. However, Oriné's eyes quickly settled on the human. It had been restrained in a gravity field, its shirt torn away revealing a scarred and burned chest. The Elite Minor was able to recognize several old plasma burns, doubtlessly remnants of an old battle, but there were other, much more recent and distinctively shaped burns.

_Perhaps an interrogator has come through already to make him weak_, he thought.

Its eyes followed him as he paced into the room and the door slid shut behind him. Oriné noted a distinct edge to their stare, betraying a feeling of resistance that remained firmly lodged in his psyche, but the Elite Minor did not particularly care to try and snuff it; he had come for information.

Drawing his Lumidex, he quickly called up one of the human symbols and enlarged it. It was one of the bigger ones, of which there were only twenty-six. Once it was clearly visible he held it out for the human to see.

"What is… this?" Oriné said in the human tongue. Speaking wasn't a struggle, but it remained to be seen if he had learned it properly. Among his study materials had been recordings of interactions between humans in their cells.

It gave him a look and answered in a strange tone. "A letter?"

Oriné frowned. "No. What sound?"

The human looked perplexed and, more obtrusively, guarded. "Why do you want to know?"

This one was proving obstructive. Letting a loud growl out of his throat, he slammed his fist against a wall. "What is the sound?"

For a moment, it looked like the human wasn't going to answer. Oriné was about to strike it when it answered, "It makes the sound 'aye.'"

Oriné hesitated. "Aye?"

The human nodded slowly. "Unless it's short. Then it's 'ih.'"

The Sangheili rolled it around in his head for a while, testing the sound in his throat until it came naturally. He reached down and keyed up the next letter.

"What is this one?"

* * *

Rurut was constantly stationed on guard duty. As such, he found his days full of boredom and a dulled interest in the newly arrived prisoners. These had more fight in them than the previous ones, having only been brought in a scant two weeks ago. When he walked by they yelled at him in their strange tongue.

That Elite Minor had been down repeatedly, interrogating several of the humans one right after the other. Most of the Sangheili who tortured humans only did it so many times, but this one was down almost every day after his duty shift. Stranger than that, though, was the condition the humans returned in: completely unharmed. They were slowly becoming less and less frightened of the Elites and more defiant.

The station commander didn't like that at all.

"Who is that Sangheili?" the Elite Zealot demanded. Rurut stood by the door, silently fascinated, while the young Jailor worked several holographic runes.

"A Minor stationed at the armory, Excellency," he replied after a moment. "He came here straight from Institution."

The older Sangheili snorted. "I wonder what he did to deserve this station," he muttered. "Keep an eye on him, and torture all those who he lets go without punishment." The commander turned to leave, but paused at the door. "And, if you can, find out what he did."

The Jailor nodded, and the commander departed. Rurut watched him leave. There was an odd gait to the Zealot's walk; he had most likely been injured on the frontlines and sent back here while he recuperated. As he passed the holding cells, he glared at each human in turn, snarling and snapping his mandibles together when they returned with some obscene gesture.

Once he was gone, Rurut waddled into the room and stared at the screen. He couldn't make out the name of the Elite, but he could divine that he was quite young.

The Jailor had slipped back into daydream mode, so Rurut quietly took his place by the door again, staring down the hall. His relief would come sooner or later, and after that he could get some sleep.

His relief, in fact, came much sooner than he anticipated, and in greater numbers. Three Unggoy came staggering down the corridor, leaning on each other and giggling as they tried to shush each other. When they were a full meter away, Rurut grimaced under his mask. He could smell the grog through his mask. Dread seized his stomach.

"Gatgat, what are you doing?" Rurut hissed once they were in range.

The Unggoy only giggled and shoved past him, his two friends following closely. Rurut made to go after them, but suddenly stopped as the Elite snapped out of his daydreams upon the latest intrusion.

He snarled at the Grunts. "What is the meaning of this? What business have you here?" But they, so drunk they couldn't even see straight, ignored him and began fiddling with controls.

At first, the Jailor merely shouted at them to cease, but his yells of irritation quickly changed to cries of panic. "No, stop!" His warning came too late as one of the Unggoy flicked a switch and laughed, and a familiar hum died out. For a moment there was no sound, just a quiet unfamiliar to the jail hall unless all the cells were already empty.

"You fools!" the Elite bellowed in his loudest voice, snapping the intruders from drunken reveling to overwhelming panic. The three quickly bolted out of the room and fled down the hall. They would have been at the other end and gone in another few seconds had not the humans, now no longer restrained by force fields, leaped out and wrestled them to the floor. As the Unggoy screamed, a human wrestled one's plasma pistol away and shot it in the head. The others panicked but rapidly fell to the same fate.

Immediately the humans turned towards Rurut, raised their plasma pistols, and fired. He blundered backwards into the room, green bolts of superheated gas slamming into the bulkhead where he had just been. In a flash the Elite had rushed to the door, fired his plasma rifle into the hall, and pressed the emergency door release. A heavy blast door slammed into place, sealing off the control room.

"Damned Unggoy!" the Jailor cursed. "Even in death they cause us trouble."

Rurut didn't bother to mention that he was an Unggoy. Instead he merely stared at the door nervously. The Elite caught his gaze. "Fear not, they cannot breach this door with such weapons."

"We must warn the rest of the station that the prisoners were released," Rurut said.

The Elite nodded and turned to the console. While he fiddled with it, Rurut listened carefully. He heard the humans briefly pounding on the door before becoming disinterested and ceasing. Beyond that, however, he had no idea what would happen next.

"Damned Unggoy!" the Elite repeated, slamming his fist against the console. "They've disrupted communications to the rest of the station."

"What does that mean, Excellency?"

The Jailor checked his plasma rifle charge. "They are on their own. And so are we."

* * *

Oriné was at his duty station when he felt the rumble beneath his hooves. Several other soldiers nearby looked similarly puzzled at the clearly unexpected quake. One Kig-Yar sniffed the air tentatively and gave a grimace even deeper than its usual scowl.

"The air is moving," it hissed. A split second later, there was a shrill alarm, and blast doors shut all around the hall. Oriné barely slipped out from under one as it came crashing down, blocking off the armory. For a moment his warrior side lamented before he checked his hip, upon which his Needler remained fastened. Now at least comforted by the presence of a weapon, he could investigate.

"What is the meaning of this?" A nearby Sangheili picked up an Unggoy and held it before his face. "What is happening?"

The creature squealed and writhed, giving Oriné the impression that it had no better idea than the Elite. The taller warrior scoffed in its face and let it down, whereupon the diminutive Grunt backed off and looked for a place that was far away from any Sangheili.

"I believe," said a nearby Elite Minor, "this is part of the station's atmospheric breach protocol." He tapped on one of the bulkheads. "Should a breach occur, all parts of the station are undoubtedly sealed off so the problem can be located and fixed."

"How do you know this?" Oriné asked.

He shrugged. "The vessel I had been stationed aboard before my reassignment here was punctured by a wayward piece of starship. A similar reaction occurred following the breach."

Oriné was about to inquire further when his radio crackled. "All warriors, this is the station commander. There has been a disturbance; telemetry from all parts of the station is down, so we cannot determine what precisely has gone amiss, but we believe it originated in the area of the prison and the docks. The failsafes are preventing us from raising the doors at the moment, but the Huragok are working to fix this. For now, however, we need search teams to go to the prison and the docks and discover what has happened. Fireteams, organize as best as possible and proceed to the objective."

Seconds after he finished, Oriné's squadron channel came alive. "Oriné, this is Major 'Quhlatee."

"Excellency, where are you?"

"Myself and the majority of the squad are trapped on the habitation deck. Are you at the armory?"

"Yes, Excellency."

There was a pause. "Rendezvous with any forces you can find and begin making your way to the target area."

"Yes, Excellency."

Oriné cut the channel and looked about. It seemed that most everybody present was in a similar way, cut off from their usual squad mates. But that did not mean they were not willing to make do with those available. The Elite Minor from before approached him.

"Shall you come with us?" he asked, holding out his hand in a gesture of camaraderie. "Or are you waiting for your squad?"

"I am cut off," Oriné admitted, nodding towards his hand. "I will join you until such a time as my lance will catch up with me."

The Sangheili smiled. "I am Hada 'Sobotee."

"Oriné 'Fulsamee."

Together they polled the remaining forces trapped in the armory area. Most had been, as Oriné suspected, completely cut off from their usual squads and were more than willing to join with the two Elites, with a few exceptions, namely the gruff Sangheili who had physically abused the Unggoy.

"I shall remain here," he said, "and wait for the majority of our forces to come through." Oriné nodded at him, then turned to the armory.

"We must get this open," he said. "Inside are cutting torches we can use to reach our objective."

'Sobotee examined the blast door. "Do you know of any overrides?"

Oriné shook his head. "My job was simply to organize and inventory our supplies, not to..." He trailed off as a realization came to him. Oriné jogged to his console and pushed aside the Lumidex he had been using to study the human language, instead looking at the inventory screen. He scrolled through the list: _Type Twenty-Fives, Type Thirty-Threes, Fuel Rod Guns... aha, here we go_.

"Look here," he said, motioning 'Sobotee over. "There are several anti-matter charges stocked inside the armory."

'Sobotee examined the list carefully. "And this signifies... what?"

"They can be remote detonated," Oriné said, "via the Battle Net. They are close to the door, too, and should make an entryway for us."

"And eliminate half the armory."

"The cutting torches are on the far wall, and those are what we truly need. They should be safe from the blast." He called up the appropriate list of commands, found the detonation codes, and uploaded them to his armor's built in computer. "Quickly, away from the door!" 'Sobotee obeyed, as did all others within hearing range, getting to whatever cover they could find. After he was sure everyone was secured, Oriné keyed the proper frequency and engaged the explosives.

There was a moment when nothing happened, and then there was a bright flash that blinded everyone in the room. He felt the deck heave beneath his hooves and he collapsed, losing consciousness briefly. When he came to, there was no more wall where once there had been.

"Well," 'Sobotee said beside him, picking himself up. "That worked better than I thought." He helped Oriné up. "You are an interesting warrior, 'Fulsamee."

Oriné said nothing, instead walking forward and stepping over the remains of the blast door. He picked his way through the wreckage, noting that the blast had been aided by secondary detonations caused by containers full of plasma grenades cooking off. However, as he had anticipated, the cutting torches remained undamaged. Both he and 'Sobotee grabbed one and approached the crowding group of soldiers.

"Those able to carry them, pick a torch. There will be many doors for us to cut through along the way." As everyone filed in, Oriné approached the nearest blast door and put the nozzle against the metal. He gave the main compartment a slight squeeze, and a thin stream of plasma blazed forth, slicing right through the door as if it were nothing. Quickly, with a steady hand, he dragged the torch in an arc, bringing it back to the floor several feet away. Once he was done, he took a step back and delivered a heavy kick to the door. The section he had cut fell inward with ease, and the other soldiers, now armed with whatever weapons they had been carrying plus more cutting torches. Oriné double-checked the fuel in the torch: he had enough for a few more doors at least.

The group continued through the hallways, linking up with other teams when they could. After five doors, Oriné's torch was too low to cut through another one; frowning at the tool in his hand, he clipped it to his belt and drew his Needler.

When they finally made it to the prison level, they had assembled a force of over fifty various species.

"Spread out and search," ordered a Major that had joined them at one point or another. "Find out what has gone wrong." The floor plan was divided up quickly, and Oriné and 'Sobotee were tasked with finding the Jailor. They set out in the direction of the appropriate office.

About halfway to their objective, 'Sobotee set a cautionary hand on Oriné's shoulder. "I believe I've discovered what went wrong," he said quietly, and Oriné glanced to either side. The translucent energy barriers that would ordinarily hold the prisoners were deactivated, and there was no sign of any humans. As he took a careful step forward he felt the grip on the bottom of his boot slip slightly; he glanced down and saw the floor was slick with bright blue blood.

_Unggoy blood._

The pair hastened towards the office, whereupon they discovered the bodies of three Grunts had been piled in front of a blast door that had been sealed tight.

"Does your torch still have fuel?" Oriné turned to 'Sobotee.

The other Minor nodded, motioning for Oriné to stand aside. He stepped up to the door, activated the torch, and was just about to start sliding the concentrated stream of plasma through the metal when the lights around it flashed and the blast door slid up into the ceiling. 'Sobotee jumped back, taken off guard, and another Sangheili was seen crouching behind the door, plasma rifle ready and aimed right at him.

Recognition flashed through the Jailor's eyes and he lowered his weapon quickly.

"What happened here?" Oriné asked.

The Jailor's eyes narrowed, but he turned to the side and made a motion with his hand. An Unggoy in dirty orange armor crawled out from its hiding place further into the room.

"The humans were released," the Jailor growled. "The companions of this one were responsible."

Oriné couldn't place the expression on the Grunt's face, but it certainly didn't appear recalcitrant at all. One thing Oriné had discovered in Institution was that, if an Unggoy felt truly responsible for an action, it would be in their eyes, no matter what its posture. This one, though its shoulders were slumped and its head inclined downward, his eyes were resolute in their defiance.

"Where are the humans now?" 'Sobotee asked.

The Jailor shook his head. "Unknown. The Unggoy caused a great malfunction with the consoles. None of the cameras will operate, and we have been cut off from the Battle Net."

Nodding, Oriné reached up and keyed his radio. "Excellency, we have located the Jailor."

"Does he know what caused the malfunction?"

"He claims the humans have escaped captivity."

There was a long pause, during which time Oriné wondered if the Major was receiving confirmation of the fact. "All units, regroup and proceed to the docking shaft. The humans have escaped and may be attempting to steal a dropship."

"Let us go!" 'Sobotee turned on his heel and bolted; Oriné made a quick "remain here" motion to the Jailor and took off after his comrade. As they ran, a navigational marker appeared on their heads-up displays.

* * *

The docking area wasn't what Oriné had been expecting. He had thought that the station, because it catered to so few ships, would have a relatively small area for such. He recalled Institution's docking spike, and how, though massive, it was largely open-air walkways with one massive centralized gravity lift.

Unfortunately, _Devil's Gulag _was the polar opposite. No gravity lift and a spider web of closed-in corridors awaited the search party. Though Oriné had never seen live combat, what he had learned in Institution told him that this area would be a nightmare to clear out.

"Spread into fire teams," one Major instructed. "Begin clearing the sector. We will send more teams in as they arrive; report on movements every five minutes."

Once the fire teams had been selected, they began the unenviable task of sweeping through the hallways. Oriné kept his Needler up and armed, ready to be fired at a moment's notice. Three Unggoy wandered uneasily ahead of him, but it was 'Sobotee's presence that eased him slightly. So far, his fellow Minor had had proven to be an incredibly capable warrior, equal to his own skill.

Reports flew back and forth every so often, each one a negative statement concerning the presence of humans. Oriné encountered no humans himself, and neither did 'Sobotee. Every five minutes he reported as such and they continued their arduous searching. There were only so many places the humans could hide, and it wouldn't be long before they were found.

A scamper of movement caught Oriné's eye and his motion tracker as it blinked red, the color of an uncertain presence. He immediately raised his hand and 'Sobotee and the Unggoy ceased moving. Slowly he brought the hand down and motioned forward, taking a few steps himself. His breathing quickened. This was no training scenario, no idle daydream of glory; this was real. His opponent was armed, and so was he. They were aware of each other's presence.

Shadows shifted for an instant, and reflexively Oriné squeezed down the firing contact, the Needler bucking in his hand as a handful of pink luminescent projectiles were spat from the barrel. They slammed into the wall, reflecting this way and that off the solid surface, finding no purchase in a living organism. However, the light from the needles briefly illuminated the shadow and the Elite Minor saw with horror that there _was _a human there, crouched on the ground. It clutched a plasma pistol.

"Look out!" Green motes of light zipped through the air, splashing against bulkheads. From a small distance down the hall a second weapon fired in kind. Oriné threw himself backwards, nearly knocking over the Unggoy as he did so. He squeezed the trigger again, sending another wave of needles into the corner, but none locked on. The projectiles splintered harmlessly in mid-air.

The first human jumped forward at Oriné, impacting him heavily. The Sangheili stumbled and fell back; its hands clutched at his throat, and for a moment he was overcome by fear. The memory of Olah 'Seroumee pressing his malier against his windpipe resurfaced in his mind. It was a second before he realized that, though the five digits of the alien had found purchase they lacked the strength to at all hinder his breathing. As his mind was recovering, there was a report of a plasma rifle and the human screamed, slumping over and rolling off the Elite.

'Sobotee stood over Oriné and offered him a hand up. "They are tricky devils," 'Sobotee remarked as he pulled Oriné to his feet. The Sangheili nodded his assent and looked at the body, which twitched with dying spasms of its muscles. Several holes had been burned into the alien's back.

"Where is the other?" he asked, turning to look down the hallway. The accompanying fire had ceased.

"I believe it retreated," the other said.

Their radios crackled. "Report."

"Contact," 'Sobotee said. "Two humans. We have exterminated one, in pursuit of the other."

"Very well. Hunt it down."

The group took off at a jog, 'Sobotee taking the lead. Oriné still felt slightly shaken by his encounter, but was unsure as to whether or not it was because of the actual human or the unpleasant memory it brought on.

As they went, several of the other groups began reporting sightings of the humans. Most were just of quick contacts, but one or two claimed that fire was exchanged. It seemed to Oriné like they were gradually forcing the humans into a smaller and smaller area. Eventually they began to hear the distant discharge of weapons.

"Close up," 'Sobotee said, and immediately the Unggoy fell into a strict line behind him, with Oriné at the rear. A human darted in front of them and 'Sobotee fired, sending blue plasma cascading down the hall. One of the bolts caught the human in the ankle just as it began to dart out of view; they heard a cry and watched as the body fell out of sight, though the foot remained visible. It twitched and rolled.

Oriné took point and peeked around the corner. The plasma pistol had slid out of its reach and it lay prone on the floor, writhing in agony. He came fully into the hallway and looked at the human before him: so pitiful. _In similar circumstance_, Oriné mused privately, _would I behave the same?_

Unexpectedly the creature flipped onto its back and stared up at the Sangheili; Oriné was surprised by the motion but did not let it show. Its eyes were sharp, knowing the fate that awaited it. The Elite Minor tightened his grip on his weapon... then lowered it.

"Unggoy," he called out. One of them, a red-armored Major, waddled up. "Finish it." Not questioning the order in the slightest, the Grunt raised its pistol and fired. The human's head fell back heavily against the deck.

'Sobotee nodded. "Let us continue," he said, this time allowing the Unggoy to go ahead of them. As they took point, he fell into step beside Oriné. "Friend, are you ill?"

"No," Oriné replied. His voice sounded strained to him. "Merely distressed."

* * *

The groups had split up. Only one human remained unaccounted for, so the Elites had separated. Many had opted to bring a clutch of Grunts with them, but Oriné decided to go alone despite the warnings of his peers. He felt lost. Twice he had been in a position to kill a human, but he had hesitated. Why?

His thoughts drifted back to his father, back on Sanghelios with his mother, but he banished the thoughts from his mind. They had no place here.

As he turned a corner he raised his Needler out of habit, but quickly saw it hadn't been a wasted effort. The human stood there, back to him, cradling its arm. It was completely unawares. He raised his rifle... and once more stopped.

He almost felt the atmospheric change as the human became aware of him and turned slowly, eyes wide. Oriné recognized him; the first human he had interrogated about his language. They all looked alike, but he could see subtle differences in them.

Apparently it recognized him as well. They stared at each other for a moment longer before the human made to grab at his plasma pistol. Oriné tightened his grip on his weapon and it ceased its motion. "Well?" it spoke after a while. "Are you going to do it?"

Oriné did not budge. The human took a step to the side and began to sidle his way around the Sangheili. Oriné did not move, only turning when the human began to leave his line of sight. Finally it turned and outright fled. He watched it go, but soon after realized his folly.

_Why am I so unsure? _He raced after it.

He saw its back just as it jumped around another corner out into the middle of the hallway, weapon raised and charging. Oriné continued to run forward and caught the glint of gold out of the corner of his eye; the human had its weapon leveled at a Zealot.

Something clicked. Oriné squeezed the trigger, five projectiles jumping from the weapon and impaling the human. Three went into its torso, one into its thigh, and the other into its throat. When they detonated, crimson blood sprayed from the wounds. It collapsed to the deck, weakly clutching its wounds and then lay still.

Oriné looked at what he'd done with dulled fascination. There was his enemy, prostrate and lifeless before him, lifeblood all over the deck. He looked at his hands; red droplets had fallen onto his clawed gloves. With care he wiped them on his armor, tiny red streaks appearing. So that was death. As a child he had been kept awake by dark fears of the end.

Now he felt nothing.

Finally he glanced towards the Sangheili that had almost been shot and realized that it was the station commander. He knew he should have felt panic or fear or pride... but there was nothing. Instead he merely bowed numbly. "Excellency."

The commander was covered in the human's blood. He had not been shielded; if the human had fired, it would have been his undoing. He looked at the warrior in the cobalt armor. "You have saved me, young one," he said.

Oriné nodded.

The Zealot looked him over. "You have no honor markings," he said.

Oriné nodded again.

"This was your first kill?"

Oriné hesitated... then affirmed. "Yes, Excellency."

"What is your name, warrior?"

"Oriné 'Fulsamee."

The commander appeared to muse for a moment. "In drawing your first blood you have saved the life of a superior. There are few greater honors. Tell me, warrior 'Fulsamee, why have you been stationed here? What transgression did you commit that resulted in you being exiled from battle?"

"A..." The young Sangheili stopped himself. "I... was reckless and disregarded protocol. I was sent here as punishment."

The Zealot fell silent. For a moment longer they stood there, until finally the station commander raised his head to his helmet and keyed his radio. "The last human has been eliminated. All warriors back to your posts."

He began to walk away; Oriné automatically fell in line behind him. "Excellency," he asked after a while, "what caused the doors to close?"

"There was a hull breach further down the docking sector. One of the humans got down that far, perhaps looking for a useable ship, and entered the Unggoy dormitories. We assume he fired his weapon and ignited the methane.

"The entire Grunt living area was destroyed."

* * *

Oriné stepped into the station commander's office. It wasn't lush like he had imagined, instead quite sparse and bare. The walls were adorned only with a few token decorations, but nothing personal that might reveal the commander's tastes in art or his trophies won on the battlefield.

"Excellency, I am reporting as ordered."

The commander had his back to the door. It had been many months since the incident of escaped humans, and Oriné had settled into his routine. An honor marking had finally been inscribed on his armor, and a high one at that; though not technically signifying a higher rank, many other Elite Minors would nod towards him when he passed in the hallways out of respect.

But ever since that day he had felt the mark weigh him down. He hadn't earned it. 'Sobotee had slain a human in honorable combat. That deserved honor. If Oriné had only killed the human when he should have he never would have received the marking.

However the memories fell away from his mind when he saw that, as the commander turned to face him, he held a Lumidex in his hand.

"Elite Minor Oriné 'Fulsamee," the Zealot said, "direct transfer from Institution. According to your record it was decided that you required more time to properly understand the discipline and protocol of the military, though you were quite fit for Commencement when it occurred." He set the unit on his desk. "But a little digging revealed much more."

Oriné felt his hearts beat a little harder. The commander met his eyes. "You are truly an ambitious youth. You save your station commander from death and gain an honor marking, but it appears that was only a consolation prize for losing the Head Master's daughter." The young Sangheili felt himself go pale and his mandibles fall slack. How had he found out?

The Zealot chuckled. "Strange that one with such a mixed sense of honor should end up in our merry little band. Have you anything to say in your defense?"

Oriné struggled to find the words. He had been blindsided. He had not spoken to the station commander since the prisoner escape and all of a sudden here he was, suffering an interrogation of events best forgotten.

The golden-armored Sangheili cocked his head and clicked his mandibles, apparently satisfied with the young one's silence. "Very well," he said. With the flick of his wrist he sent the Lumidex sliding across the desk towards the Minor. "Your transfer orders."

"Excellency?"

"The _Domain of Prosperity _is a carrier bound for the front lines to reinforce the S'gor Legion currently entrenched on the human world of Pearl, and it is stopping by to restock its armory. I believe that is the same legion that your Institution squadron was assigned to? You shall join them soon."

Oriné stared at the Lumidex, not daring to hope. With a trembling hand he lifted the mobile screen and looked at it: there it was, in plain text. He was finally going to the front lines.

He lifted his head. "Excellency... why..."

"One of your skill should not be wasted here, no matter what a backwards and uptight Head Master may believe. Of course I am also transferring Hada 'Sobotee with you so he may keep you under control." The commander saluted. "Go with the Gods, Oriné 'Fulsamee."

When the ship finally arrived, Oriné and 'Sobotee said their farewells and boarded the _Domain of Prosperity_, destined for the front lines. When they reached their cabin, both put their meager personal belongings in the lockers provided but Hada made for the door immediately afterward. "I wish to go to the mess hall," he said, "to meet our fellow warriors and find some nourishment."

Oriné nodded. "Go on. I will remain here."

After 'Sobotee left, Oriné eased himself into the gel bed and retrieved the small leather book from his belongings. Since the incident he had plenty of time to continue his practice of the human language. He had become quite proficient with it, shocking even Major 'Quhlatee with his abilities. Now he could understand the words emblazoned in gold on the cover as well as those on the pages in between.

"Ringworld," Oriné murmured, "by Larry Niven." He sat back and began to read.


	9. Pearl

**Author's Note: **Has been acting up with anyone else recently? I've been finding weird line breaks everywhere and it's being a pain trying to get those section dividers in the right place.

Chapter 9: Pearl

As the _Domain of Prosperity _traversed Slipspace, Oriné 'Fulsamee prepared himself for duty on the front lines: every day he cleaned his armor, practiced with the weapons available at the armory, and said his prayers with conviction. In the galley he discussed with his fellow Elite Minors what it would be like, how much glory they would win, who would be skilled enough to rise in the ranks and become a Field Master. They laughed and joked and dreamed; veterans of combat looked at them with odd mixtures of emotions, though Oriné could not place the wayward feelings of those Sangheili who had already seen battle. They were neither happy nor angry. He pushed the concern from his head.

In private, he debated strategy with Hada 'Sobotee. The two of them had grown quite close during their service on the _Devil's Gulag_, and it was sometimes difficult for Oriné to remember that his new companion didn't graduate Institution with him.

"I was born on Joyous Exultation," 'Sobotee confided to him once. "I was trained at the facilities located there."

Oriné cocked his head. "I wasn't aware of any training facilities on Joyous Exultation."

At that, 'Sobotee grinned. "They are small," he said knowingly, "but they are there."

When the _Domain of Prosperity_ finally dropped out of Slipspace, Oriné and dozens of other curious Covenant warriors stood on the observation deck looking to catch the first sight of the planet. His eyes were locked on the transparent dome as the black film of Slipspace peeled back and revealed all.

Oriné stiffened. He expected that there would be a raging space battle overhead, orange and blue explosions ripping across the silent black void of space. On the surface he expected a pitched fight, the Covenant fighting for every inch of land and the humans returning their efforts blow for blow. While down there he expected his body and faith to be tried, and to come out alive, a better warrior and follower of the Forerunner for having undergone such a trial.

What he didn't expect was that among this all, it would be so beautiful.

Pearl, the human world, hung in space like a smoky glass bead, the kind he had seen floating in museums as decorations, held in suspension by a gravity field. In its atmosphere, rings of white clouds twisted around the planet lazily, like a coiled serpent around a coveted treasure. Beneath, fields of browns, blues, whites, and light greens stretched for hundreds of kilometers, streaking the planet in a beautiful conglomeration of color. The dazzling blasts of battle only added to the effect, creating a halo around the unassuming world that left Oriné with a sense of awe. They were here to destroy this?

As the soldiers around him erupted into excited chatter, Oriné released a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. It was such a breathtaking sight... how could it belong to the vicious 

humans? Did they not appreciate its immutable splendor, choosing instead to defile it with their presence? Had they no shame?

_Or do they know its tender beauty_, he wondered, _and look upon it as I do now?_

He was roughly jostled in the shoulder. Oriné's head snapped to the side, finding 'Sobotee looking at him with his usual crooked grin. "We must prepare for deployment," he said, indicating the crowd's dispersal. "It would not do for us to be late to our first battle."

* * *

Oriné's stomachs dipped and twisted as the Spirit dropship plunged through the atmosphere. Each prong of the U-shaped craft had four troop compartments in it, enough for an individual warrior and his gear. Held in the forward-most compartment, three Grunts were on his left, all jittering nervously.

A small window was allowed him, and through it the Sangheili could see the thick clouds and not much else. In the other prong 'Sobotee and three more Unggoy were in a similar position; a radio channel was open from one side of the dropship to the other, as well as to the cockpit, but nobody was speaking. Oriné knew his own reasons were out of fear and nervousness: there had been very little instruction regarding what he was expected to do once planet-side. An Elite Major had only told him and 'Sobotee to this particular dropship that was heading down to a forward command center just east of a human city. Beyond that, their orders were unclear.

Finally the clouds broke and Oriné was able to see that they were in the middle of a storm of some kind; his visibility was severely limited. When the dropship landed several minutes later and opened its lateral doors, Oriné was confronted for the first time with an unknown weather condition.

"Is this... snow?" He reached out a hand. The multitudinous flakes fell upon it as if they were ravenous carnivores, hoping to consume his clawed digits. The lowest average temperature on Sanghelios was -5°C at the poles, but Lomak was located closer to the equator. He had seen recordings of ice and snow, but never at this magnitude, and never in person.

It was beautiful, sublime. Small glittering crystals held together by the basest bonds of nature. It was cold, yes, but by no means unwelcoming. Swirling around him, he found himself caught up in the simple majesty of it.

His reverie was shattered by the shouting of several voices at once. He looked up to see an Elite Major waving him and his clutch of Grunts over; 'Sobotee was already there. Jogging up, Oriné saluted. Moments later two additional lances approached the group, similarly beckoned by the ranking Elite.

"Welcome to S'gor Legion, Divine Unit. I wish there was more time for proper introductions," he said, "but recently the humans have begun a counteroffensive. We must hurry to the Shadow 

transports. I shall brief you while we are en-route." The Major took off at a light run, followed closely behind by the four lances.

Shadow transports were armored personnel carriers capable of the same carrying capacity as a Spirit. Oriné and 'Sobotee climbed onto the same transport, followed by their Grunts, while the other two lances jumped aboard the one in front of theirs, the Major climbing up and jumping in the defense turret of the same one. Ahead and behind other Shadows were loading up with troops. From where he sat, Oriné was unable to tell how many transports were in this convoy.

"The following are the lance assignments: 'Kalsamee, your lance is First Lance; Olkokee, Second Lance; 'Fulsamee, Third Lance; 'Sobotee, Fourth Lance." Just as the Major finished the list, the Shadow hummed to life, its anti-gravity generators coming online and making the craft hover a foot off the ground. As the convoy began picking up speed the Shadow shook, but the occupants were held tight by the magnetic safety harnesses.

The radio crackled. "Divine Unit, your ears: we are currently bound for the human city of Tropicas. We plan to assault the capital city of this world, Arctana, within the month. However, in order to do that, we must secure a route through the defensive phalanx the humans have set up to halt our progress. They have miles of anti-air and anti-personnel defenses prepared, as well as artillery.

"Tropicas has been under siege for several weeks now, and we believe the humans are finally weak enough for us to punch through. The units already present will be advancing as we speak, but it will ultimately be our job to take the city."

There was a sudden sound, pulling Oriné's attention away from the Major's briefing. Several shapes accelerated past the convoy, barely visible in the snow. For a moment Oriné thought they were Chimeras, the civilian vehicles he had seen on High Charity, but realized his mistake when he saw the mounted plasma cannon on the back. These were Spectres, Chimeras modified for military use.

_They must be the convoy's cover,_ he rationalized. They would move up and down the length of the Shadows' train, making sure no hostile vehicles drew close enough to cause any damage.

"Excellency," Oriné said over the radio channel, "how are we to operate in this weather?"

"He has a point. I can barely see three feet from the Shadow," 'Olkokee said.

"It will be difficult," the Major replied, "but the same is true for the humans as well. We are hoping that the storm will interfere with their artillery targeting and they will not be able to zero us." Oriné didn't like the thought of being annihilated by bombardment before he had a chance to fire his weapon.

As the convoy pressed onwards through the blizzard he became aware of an irregular distant thumping. At first he dismissed it as his own hearts beating, but as they grew louder he began to realize it was the sound of battle. The thought was driven home when he caught motion in the 

sky. A human flying vehicle dropped altitude and buzzed over the formation of vehicles, pursued closely by two Banshees. He heard the sound of plasma as the Spectres opened fire and the excited shouts of his fellow warriors. Unconsciously he gripped his plasma rifle tighter.

The exact cause of the thumping became crystal clear when the ground suddenly exploded several meters away from the Shadow. While the humans' artillery sighting was indeed being interfered with by the storm, they were still firing into the blizzard, hoping to get lucky. The transport rocked slightly as it passed over the lip of a crater from a previous blast. Within it Oriné could see the broken remains of a Wraith mortar tank, still sparking as its fusion drive sent what little energy it had left to its destroyed systems. The damage was inconsistent with that of an artillery hit, leading him to believe the shell had landed and the tank had advanced and was destroyed by something else. A moment later he saw an inert human Scorpion tank, which he assumed had been the source of the Wraith's demise.

Eventually buildings began to pass by his view, small ones, but that meant they were now entering the outskirts of the city. A tremble of apprehension flew up his spine. He looked at the windows with a growing anxiety; any one of them could conceal an enemy sniper. Tentatively he brought his rifle up a little higher, ready to open fire at a moment's notice.

Or so he thought. A second later the staccato clatter of human weapons' fire filled the air and bullets began ricocheting off the Shadow's hull. A sniper round buried itself in the metal right next to his head; he cried out in surprise and tried to duck, but was held firmly in place by the magnetic safety harness.

"Shields!" The Major's voice roared across the radio. Oriné activated his, feeling the crackle of electricity rush up his spine. No sooner had the feeling passed than a lighter caliber round pinged off his shoulder. He felt the impact but no accompanying pain.

The Phantom came to a halt soon after. The turrets on the top turned and began to glow as the plasma coils heated then spat gobs of white-hot plasma into the buildings and alleys. Human fire intensified but was redirected upwards.

Oriné felt the release of pressure on his chest and realized the magnets had been deactivated. The Major jumped from his seat up high and landed beside his Shadow. "Divine! Move forward!" As he began to run towards the nearest building Oriné found his own legs again and automatically charged after him. His muscles expanded and contracted of their own accord. Behind him pounded the footfalls of 'Sobotee and the Unggoy that had accompanied them.

As they came to the building the other two lances dashed past them and into the neighboring structure. The Major's voice crackled over the radio: "Third and Fourth Lances, take the nearest building. Clear it out and then do the same to the one across the street."

'Sobotee arrived at the door first, raising his hoof and delivering a powerful kick to the metal. It caved under his boot, and his three Grunts, two Minors and a Major, ran into the darkened room. 'Sobotee followed; Oriné sent his own Grunts in ahead and went in last.

Inside, though the shadows were deep, Oriné saw many tables, chairs, counters, and shelves spread about seemingly haphazardly. Several had been overturned, their peculiar contents spilled across the floor. However there was no time to contemplate their purpose as Oriné heard shouting from upstairs.

_Alien _shouting.

"What are they saying?" 'Sobotee asked, waving his Unggoy to the walls.

Oriné listened briefly. The building shook as one of the Shadows in the street turned its turret towards the second story. There was more human shouting, which Oriné recognized as instructions to get clear of the windows. "They are vulnerable."

"Then we strike now." 'Sobotee barked an order, sending his Unggoy scurrying up the stairs. Oriné followed suit, he and his Grunts charging to the second floor. Plasma fire erupted among the surprised cries of the humans who were unprepared to split their attention between the street and their rear. By the time Oriné and 'Sobotee got up the stairs, the Unggoy had already cleared out the room.

The third story proved to be more difficult as the humans had heard the commotion downstairs and were ready for the Covenant warriors. However, there were fewer of them. Once more the Grunts took the lead, but this time the two Sangheili were quick about getting into the room before the action stopped. When Oriné entered he blazed away with his plasma rifle, but after the two humans lay dead he was unsure if he had actually hit either one.

"Building clear, Excellency," Oriné said over the radio.

"Move on to the next target," the Major said. "Leave no human alive."

The rest of the day was a blur to Oriné, obscured by adrenaline and snow. He and his lance cleared several buildings, Divine Unit in charge of emptying this particular street. As he and his Grunts began to set up barracks in the first building they had cleared, Oriné could not remember any particular details. Had he actually killed a human here? On _Devil's Gulag _it had been... different. A one on one fight did not seem to register the same as the battlefield. Here his training took over. There were no words to accurately describe it.

Once the barracks were set up, Oriné descended from the upper levels to the ground floor where 'Sobotee and his Unggoy were preparing defenses. Already an uplink crate had been set up in the corner and the supply pods stored appropriately. "Hail, Oriné," 'Sobotee said upon seeing him.

"Our living quarters are ready," Oriné said by way of reply.

"The Major will be happy to hear it."

"How is the battle throughout the rest of the city?"

'Sobotee fiddled with the plasma cannon. It stood on a tripod, facing out of one of the large bay windows that faced the street. His lance had displaced several tables to make room for the turrets, and by the doors they had deployed inactive covers, waiting to be turned on. When they were, they would throw up a wall of plasma shielding. Against Covenant weapons it held for a while, but against human weapons it was nigh-impervious. Only their primitive explosives could damage the unit and bring it down. "It goes well," he said. "The Major said we have made more progress than anticipated."

The ground rumbled and the two Sangheili looked up. A pair of light-reconnaissance Ghosts sped by, followed closely by a Spectre. 'Sobotee returned his attention to the turret. "They say that further down the line a few squadrons have broken through the human line completely and are already moving towards the capital."

Oriné nodded. He took a step and stopped as he heard a tinkling sound. Glancing down he saw a human device at his feet. He picked it up and examined it: cylindrical, with a perforated plastic top. The main body seemed to be made of glass. Within he saw many small crystals. Upending it, he poured a few of the crystals into the palm of his hand. They sparkled lightly.

"What do you have there?" 'Sobotee had finished his work on the cannon and was now interested in his companion's doings.

"Some device," he said, moving the crystals around with his finger. He passed it to 'Sobotee. "I believe these are a delicacy among the humans."

'Sobotee sniffed at it tentatively. "How can you tell?"

"It is in such a small container," he pointed out, "and there are not many of them around." It was true; the floor was covered in a great deal of detritus from the battle, but few of these containers and some were filled with different substances.

"Is it edible?"

"Perhaps," Oriné said, "but I would not recommend you try it."

'Sobotee nodded, accepting the warning, and tossed the vial aside. It clinked against the ground and rolled for a bit before coming to a stop against an overturned chair. But Oriné's attention was drawn to the room at large: containers of various sizes rested upon the shelves, though a few of them had been knocked loose during the battle, spilling their contents across the floor.

Posters were on the wall in various places as well. Oriné moved to one and looked at it: there was an image of a human male and female below the words, "Do Your Part: Work a Full Day Every Day." He frowned and moved to the next: "Your Job Builds Ships!" Beneath it, Oriné saw an illustration of a human battlecruiser against a starry backdrop. Behind it soared a comet.

The third poster he found was obvious in its intent: a human stood holding a smoking rifle over the crudely drawn corpse of a Sangheili. "Enlist Today," it read, "Be a Hero Tomorrow." He snorted. As he had suspected: human propaganda.

"Anything important?" 'Sobotee asked, unable to mask the disinterest in his tone. Oriné shook his head.

With their temporary quarters set up, they radioed the Major and he came a short time later, flanked by the other two lances. They were covered in dirt and grime, and one of the Unggoy was bleeding but not too severely. As the two lances moved upstairs, the Major rendezvoused with Oriné and 'Sobotee.

"Casualties are far less than expected," he said. "These humans are poorly equipped for urban fighting."

"Our sector was cleared with little incident, Excellency," Oriné reported. "One of my Unggoy suffered a minor concussion, but the Healer proclaimed him to be fine. I ordered him to get some rest to help the healing process."

The Major looked at Oriné thoughtfully. "Odd that you refer to Unggoy so. Do you respect them, 'Fulsamee?"

Oriné was caught off guard by the question. "They are... soldiers of the Covenant as am I, Excellency. Nothing more, nothing less."

The crimson-armored Sangheili gazed a while longer, then clicked his lower mandibles in dismissal. He turned to the other Elite Minor. "Anything to add, 'Sobotee?"

"My lance had no issues clearing the buildings either, Excellency, and the other units have reported success as well. I estimate that our quarters here are secure for at least three miles around us."

"That is good news. The Field Officers have set up tactical headquarters at the edge of the city and expect supplies and further reinforcement to be coming in soon." He glanced outside. The snow was still coming down in a torrent. "Provided we are not buried in our cover here, we should be fine through the night." Oriné and 'Sobotee saluted and headed upstairs as the Major located the communications array and radioed in his report.

* * *

Indeed the most eventful thing of the night was the snow falling. Oriné lay awake in his bunk for a long while watching the precipitate fly past the window. He had reviewed the Covenant's data on the planet on his Lumidex: the initial scouting party that had found the planet believed it to be on its way out of an Ice Age. It had crossed that boundary into habitable but the weather was still harsh. The humans had given it the name "Pearl" because of its frostbitten appearance.

The report went on but most of it was uninteresting, only observations that were geological in nature and thus completely dull in Oriné's eyes. However, the Luminary aboard that first scout craft had detected at least one Forerunner object of particular note, otherwise the attack group would have simply glassed the planet and left. The Elite Minor contemplated what could have drawn the Covenant's attention, but decided such concern was for the Inquisitors.

In the morning, it fell upon them to clear out the entrance, which had been snowed over during the night. The Elites set the Unggoy to work, who were quite excited at the process: their own home world was frigid and icy itself. Such weather was like a breath of familiar air to them.

Inside the Sangheili observed a holographic map of the city, projected by one of the cruisers that had achieved geosynchronous orbit with the planet. It was uncertain when the ship would be forced from its position by the battle raging in the atmosphere (Oriné was surprised at the tenacity with which the humans were defending their planet), so the ground forces were determined to make use of the advantage while they could.

"When the entrance is clear we shall make for the rally point after stopping over at the tactical headquarters for supplies," the Major said. "From there we can link up with the rest of the main force and proceed through the city. 'Fulsamee, pack up the barracks; 'Sobotee, the defenses and the uplink crate; 'Kalsamee and 'Olkokee, prepare the Shadows for transport."

The Minors saluted and set about their tasks. Oriné called his Unggoy in from outside, noting their disappointed faces, and headed upstairs. As he set about disassembling the Sangheili bunks while the Grunts took down the methane tents, Oriné took a moment to check that his personal container was all right. As he pulled it forward it accidentally popped open and he caught sight of the ornate box within.

_My nadier_, he realized, pulling it out and opening the lid. The two dueling rods sat safely. He had almost forgotten about them while he was stationed on _Devil's Gulag _and hadn't practiced with them at all. Then again, there had been no one to practice against. He wondered if he could find a willing and able participant here.

Soon after the barracks were completely packed up and ready to move out. He led his Unggoy down the stairs and out to the Shadows where the equipment was stowed in the supply pods. Once 'Sobotee's load was ready and all the soldiers aboard the vehicles rumbled to life and began moving down the road. Oriné was unfamiliar with the drivers, but listened on the radio as they chatted amiably with some of the other Sangheili.

When they arrived at tactical headquarters the area was already bustling. As the Major disembarked to enter the main building and talk with other Majors and the Zealots leading the charge, Oriné and the other Elite Minors of Divine Unit found their way to the makeshift armory to load up on whatever they needed.

"So you and 'Sobotee have come from gulag duty?" 'Kalsamee asked, coming up behind Oriné as he looked for a new battery for his plasma rifle.

"Yes, the _Devil's Gulag_."

"Is it as terrible as all claim it is?"

"How terrible do they claim it?

'Kalsamee fell silent for a while. The call came to mobilize and they were loaded back onto the Shadows, though this time Oriné finding himself in the same Shadow as 'Kalsamee. They began talking about lighter subjects, both finding it easy to converse with the other; after all, both were members of different Lineages of the same House, with Oriné from Clan 'Ful and Ynko (his given name) from Clan 'Kal.

As they were beginning to discuss their individual survival tales from Jisako, there was a cry of alarm and a massive explosion. The Shadow bucked beneath them and the magnets flickered, almost causing Oriné to lose his seat.

"What was that?"

"There!"

Just two Shadows behind was a smoking crater where one of the transports had been hit by something large and explosive. A moment later there was a whistling sound and another blast; this time, up ahead.

"Artillery! Move to cover!" Immediately the driver of the Shadow deactivated the magnetic safety harnesses and the soldiers sprung from their seat.

"Follow!" Oriné shouted to his Unggoy as they fled for the cover of the nearest building. Shells were raining from the sky, bringing destruction wherever they fell. A moment later a buzzing filled the air as several of the humans' aerial weapons platforms came low and fired across the groups of warriors scrambling for protection. Fifty millimeter shells pounded up the street.

Oriné recognized the craft from his training as Sparrowhawks, though he hadn't quite understood their destructive capabilities until he watched a pair of shells punch right through the Shadow. He watched in horror as a warrior tried to move up the street from cover to cover only to be gunned down viciously, half of him collapsing onto the snow and twitching pitifully before he died.

"An ambush," Oriné breathed. The Unggoy cowered, staying as far away from the windows as possible.

After what felt like an eternity of suffering such a bombardment, though more likely simply a matter of minutes, he heard Banshees overhead. As the sky erupted in flames the twisted wreckage of a Sparrowhawk spun into the top of the building Oriné's lance was taking cover in. With a shout he and the Grunts cleared out before the entire structure came down. They took cover under the ruins of their former transport.

When the aerial battle died down the Major called Divine Unit from cover. Only a few minor flesh wounds from debris could be found among them, though others hadn't been so lucky. There was the one half of a warrior that lay in the snow, now stained purple around him, and several others that had been killed in building collapses or the artillery barrage.

"The humans are determined to make us work for every step," the Major said. "We shall repay them in kind."

* * *

The rally point didn't have explosive shells falling from the sky but it did have a chaos equal to that of the battlefield. As soldiers dashed back and forth making ready the primary offensive wave, Oriné found it hard to keep track of his lance and his unit, making sure the Unggoy stuck with him while simultaneously trying to stay close to the Major.

Once at the command building the Major was drawn into a war council and Oriné forced out, making him wonder why he had bothered following the crimson-armored Sangheili in the first place. Oriné quietly stormed away and was immediately caught up in the controlled chaos of the rally point. Vehicles came to a halt to disgorge supplies and weapons then skated away to retrieve more of the same. Warriors rushed back and forth, outfitting various units with the equipment they'd need to push through the city.

There was a distant rumbling and a cold fear seized Oriné's stomach: the humans had them zeroed again! But when he saw plumes of dust and smoke rising elsewhere in the city, he calmed down slightly. There was another group making a push through the city and attracting the humans' attention, drawing their fire away from the massing offensive. He said a prayer for them and kept moving.

At one point he was shanghaied into assisting another unit load up their Shadows with supplies, a distraction he welcomed. It kept him from dwelling too much on his situation: though they were surrounded by allies, had consistent supplies, and were on the advance, Oriné still could not shake the adrenaline from his system. Maybe it was the fact it was his first battle, or the thrill of being on an alien world, but his body was in constant readiness for battle. It was slowly taking its toll on him. If he didn't find a way to relax, he worried for his mental health as well as his physical.

However, as the group worked, one of them began to sing; the melody quickly caught on, and those who knew the lyrics struck up:

_Once I knew a dancing girl_

_Finest girl in all the world_

_Her soft skin was light as pearl_

_When she spun her skirt would curl_

_Her love was a young Zealot_

_And when near her he would sweat_

_For only trouble she beget_

_Yet each scheme he would abet_

_When her father did catch on_

_He would lecture, she would yawn_

_He would talk from dusk till dawn_

_And by day's light she was gone_

_This young Zealot watched afar_

_Over time he did not bar_

_Her return by light of star_

_For his love would bring them far!_

Oriné didn't know the lyrics, but he happily hummed the tune as the others sang.

Soon after the song ended in a chorus of cheers and bawdy comments, the commanding officers emerged from war council and Oriné was summoned back to his unit. He and the other Elites came to a stop next to their Major, the Grunts crowding in a ring around them.

"Warriors, we shall be moving out soon," the Major said. "Our objective now is to get through this city."

"But Excellency," 'Kalsamee asked, "were we not to take this entire city?"

"The battle in space grows dire and the Hierarchs are displeased with the slowness of progress on this planet. If we are to take the capital and secure the Forerunner artifact, we must act quickly. The Prophets have spoken, and it is the will of the Gods that this planet be destroyed within a month's time."

The Sangheili fell silent. Though haste seemed to be a poor choice of tactic, the will of the Gods could not be spoken against. The Prophets, in their divine wisdom, knew the ways of the Forerunner and could interpret Their Holy Designs.

With their new objective in mind, the four lances climbed onto their two Shadows once more and prepared for a rough ride. The weather having cleared, the humans would have an easier time targeting them with artillery.

As the craft rumbled beneath them, Oriné found himself humming the song.

* * *

That evening the convoy had once again been stopped by a heavy artillery barrage. As the warriors scrambled for cover for what had to be the third time, the Major's voice sounded over the radio, informing them that they would be able to make no further progress for the day.

"Lie low where you are," he said, "and wait for morning. At dawn we shall push forward once more."

Hearing this, Oriné settled himself into a corner of the building he and his lance had taken cover in. The Unggoy found a space beneath a set of stairs and huddled in it, backs to the wall with weapons facing outward. In the darkening shadows of the building, the small motes of green light at the end of their pistols were becoming more and more visible. In a different situation, Oriné might have ordered them to clip the pistols to their belts in order to preserve secrecy, but as they could be attacked at any time, he decided that it was better to be prepared than remain undetected.

Eventually the light fully faded from the sky and the thunder of the barrage tapered off. The blasts had moved steadily away from the area, the humans sweeping the entire section of the city in hopes of wiping them out. For a while, Oriné allowed himself to relax. No longer zeroed, perhaps they could rest for a time.

Oriné yawned. He hadn't realized how tired he was until just now. With another glance towards the Unggoy, who had themselves begun to show sign of fatigue, he settled himself further into the corner and allowed his eyelids to droop down.

Some time later, he awoke. At first his mind was still clouded by sleep. How long had he been out? He looked around for some tell of time, but the sky was still full of clouds, obscuring any sort of starlight that he might use. He remembered that Pearl also had a moon, but it too was blocked out by the atmospheric conditions.

Suddenly alertness flooded his mind. Everything was silent. There was no sound made, only a soft and constant hiss of freshly falling snow against the roof and walls outside and the quiet whisper of the wind. In such conditions, he should have been perfectly capable of continued slumber. Something must have woken him.

He looked around, eyes adjusting to the darkness quickly. The Grunts were still huddled together in the corner, but they had all drifted off to sleep like he had. For a moment he cursed them, but realized that he too had drifted off. That had been against protocol.

Oriné strained his ears against the silence. At first he heard nothing, and began thinking that maybe he was simply paranoid. Then a long, lingering creaking noise resounded through the building. He stiffened. It was too deliberate. Slowly and carefully he rose to his feet and removed his plasma rifle from its place of holding on his hip. He dared not move in case he too betrayed his position, but swept his weapon back and forth.

Soon his eyes made out movement in the darkness. It was significantly shorter than him and moved with cautiousness; as it drew closer, he could see more shapes behind it. They moved methodically, sweeping the rooms they passed through with their own weapons. Oriné stepped out of sight, fearing they had night vision aids.

Their footsteps entered the room, and he heard them halt. For a moment, he wondered if his quick movement, but heard a whisper: "Sleepers."

The Unggoy. They had caught sight of the slumbering Grunts.

Oriné peeked into view and watched as one of the humans slowly approached the creatures. It slung its rifle over its shoulder and drew a glittering metal knife. His eyes went wide. They were going to kill his Unggoy in cold blood as they slept!

Falling back on his training, Oriné mechanically drew his rifle and fired. The bolt of plasma flew straight and true, impacting the back of the human's helmeted head and sending it crumpling to the floor. Immediately the other humans, of which Oriné counted three, turned and fired on his position. He ducked back and activated his shields, feeling the crackle of energy run up his spine. Properly protected, he moved to engage.

Stepping out into the fire, he felt the bullets ping off his energy shields. The holographic energy display was steadily draining, so he began to duck and weave his way through the fire. As he went he pulled back on the firing contact of the plasma rifle, firing waves of blue energy at his enemy. The first few shots went wide, but he adjusted his aim and fired several bolts into the nearest form. It screamed and fell to its knees, whereupon Oriné kicked with his hoof and struck it in the face. It fell and made no more motion.

A shrill warning sounded in his ears and Oriné realized his shields were nearly drained. He danced backwards, trying to minimize his exposure to the projectiles, but as he did so several green flashes went off and both of the humans' aim faltered. The Grunts had awoken and come to their senses in time to turn their weapons against their attackers.

Realizing they were outnumbered, the remaining two humans fell back, focusing their fire on the Grunts. The Unggoy screamed as the bullets tore into them; hearing their anguish, Oriné roared.

"_Wort wort wort!_" he bellowed, the traditional war cry tearing its way through his mandibles before he could think. He charged, barely aware that his shields had not fully recharged, and threw himself into the humans. The first one raised its arms weakly in defense, still burdened by holding its rifle; Oriné simply swatted its hands aside and swung his plasma rifle, cracking the human in the head with it. It fell to the floor and he shot it several times before turning his attention to the remaining human.

Perhaps realizing there was no way to escape, it had fixed a blade to the end of its weapon and stood in what seemed to be a perversion of a warrior's spear stance. Not one to fight dishonorably, Oriné jumped forward to meet the soldier's challenge. To its credit it was able to drive off the Sangheili's first few attempts by thrusting and keeping Oriné moving, but it made the mistake of slashing too wide. The Elite simply stepped into the arc and blocked with his left bracer, the blade sliding harmlessly off the combination of armor and shields. Effectively disarmed, Oriné swiped off the human's helmet and brought his rifle solidly down on its head. Something warm and wet sizzled on his shields.

His bloodlust faded, leaving him panting in the darkness for breath. Slowly rational thought returned, and Oriné realized he had been operating on a combination of instinct and his training. Though he couldn't see as well in the dark, he saw dark smudges all over his rifle and hands.

A burning sensation made itself known in his mind. He didn't feel the numbness he had back on _Devil's Gulag_, instead being overwhelmed with... pride. He had met his enemy while disadvantaged and groggy from sleep and still come out the victor.

Gradually he became aware of a chiming in his ears. He keyed his radio. "Report!" the Major was demanding.

"Oriné 'Fulsamee here," he responded. "A small human force attempted to neutralize us as we slept."

"What is the status of your lance?"

Suddenly remembering the Unggoy, Oriné forgot his pride and bounded back into the room where they had taken shelter. Fluorescent blood stained the walls and floor; he heard a voice whimpering and two more trying to calm it.

"One of them is seriously wounded, Excellency," he said.

"Very well, I am sending a Healer to your location. Good job repelling the humans. We shall be more alert in the future."

* * *

Halfway into their third day of pushing through the city, their convoy got hit.

Oriné was fortunate; he had been sitting in the seat of the Shadow, plasma rifle clipped to his hip, testing his shields when the first two rockets screamed out of nowhere. The first one hit the cockpit, killing the driver and destroying the controls. The second slammed into the plasma turret on top and set off a secondary explosion that sheared the craft in two. The magnets failed and Oriné, already caught off guard by the attack, was flung to the snowy ground.

He was dimly aware of the continuing attack, but the ringing in his ears and the pounding in his head kept him from reacting very well. At one point he struggled to get up but found himself too muzzy to manage it. With everything going on he was barely aware of when one of the humans noticed him and began firing at him, hardly able to acknowledge when the bullets started pinging off his shields, when the audio alert blared that his shields were depleted, or when he felt the metal bite into his shoulder. In fact he was so out of it that he scarcely realized when two strong hands seized him by his calves and pulled him into the refuge of one of the buildings.

After that, he blacked out.

When he came to, he found himself propped up against a wall on the inside. Instinctively he tried to sit up, but a burning in his left shoulder held him down. Craning his neck he saw that his pauldron had been removed and a crude but effective bandage made of ripped cloth placed over the wound. Looking around, he saw that at his feet was a chipped bowl filled with water, and next to that fresh cloth.

Oriné let his head roll back to rest against the wall, suddenly noting that his helmet was missing. Clenching his mandibles and closing his eyes, he struggled to recall what had happened, but could only remember patchy things from the battle, then nothing.

"I'm fairly sure I'm not dead," he muttered, gingerly poking at the bandage with his good hand. "If I were, I imagine this would hurt less."

"It would probably be warmer in Paradise, too." Oriné jumped at the voice, but relaxed when he realized it was only 'Sobotee. The other Elite Minor walked in, carrying with him a small satchel and his plasma rifle. As he knelt at Oriné's feet next to the bowl, the wounded Sangheili saw clearly the state of his friend's armor: it was scorched and damaged, with a cluster of small holes in the right breast.

"What happened?"

'Sobotee set down his satchel and picked up the bowl with his free hand. "We were ambushed," he said. He aimed his plasma rifle at the floor and fired, creating a glowing hot spot in the concrete. "The humans were waiting for us, having realized what our objective was. They attacked our convoy." He set the bowl down on the spot, the water within immediately beginning to bubble and steam. 'Sobotee turned his somber eyes to his friend. "I believe the rest of our unit is dead."

Oriné felt the numbness return and a slight pressure build behind his eyes. Dead? "Even the Major?"

His companion nodded. "I know that for certain. I saw his body after the battle was finished, lying lifeless in the snow."

The Major had been killed, as had 'Kalsamee and 'Olkokee and all the Unggoy. Once more he closed his eyes and leaned his head back, but left his mandibles loose and let a prayer slip through:

_Fear not the darkness_

_Greater than any night_

_Forerunner be blessed,_

_And on the Great Journey_

_We will reunite._

_Die with honor._



'Sobotee nodded, and remained quiet for a moment. Then he reached forward and slowly removed the bandage from Oriné's shoulder. The Sangheili winced, but said nothing as 'Sobotee removed it and, after soaking a piece of cloth in the hot water, replaced it.

Oriné watched him do this. "How do you know the ways of the Healer?"

'Sobotee was silent for a moment before answering without looking up. "I told you I was raised on Joyous Exultation, did I not?"

"Yes."

"There are no formal training centers on that planet. I learned what my father and mother taught me before being shipped out to a brief finishing academy. Though my father was quite strict with me in learning the combat disciplines, my mother was able to teach me what she knew of medicine."

They sat for a while in silence before Oriné shifted uncomfortably. "Where are we now?"

I dragged you away from the fight as far as I could. We had a few pursuers, but I was able to lose them by going through these buildings." He smiled. "You are quite heavy, you know, and a pain to carry."

"Will we meet up with our forces soon?"

At this, 'Sobotee could only shrug. "We shall look for them when you are better and when this latest storm passes. Until then, it is best we lie low. Here," he reached back for the satchel and pulled it forth, "I have food."

Oriné took the meager portion of rations he was offered. "On the gulag, when you spoke about serving on a ship...?"

"Merely the ship that was transporting me from the academy to the gulag," he replied, beginning to partake of his own share. "For a while its shields were down and some space debris punched through the outer hull. We were in lockdown for a few hours, during which time one of the Elite Majors in charge of maintaining the ship told me of the function."

The two ate and conversed no more.

* * *

The next day, Oriné was able to move and the storm had abated enough to allow travel. Rifles brandished, the two Minors ran from cover to cover, pausing to watch for any sign of human snipers. In the distance they could hear the cracks and explosions of battle, though were unsure of how to approach. They were ill-prepared for leaping right into combat.

"Yet where there is battle we shall find allies," 'Sobotee said. Oriné had to agree.

Making their way between buildings and across streets was quite harrowing. Adrenaline flooded Oriné's veins, making him jumpy. Every shadow held an enemy. It was all he could do from snapping and shooting at everything that moved. Were it not for the calming presence of 'Sobotee, he doubted he could have made it.

When they finally drew close, the two Sangheili found their way to a courtyard and took cover behind the low wall. Peeking over, Oriné saw that there was a large group of human soldiers surrounding a human building, peppering it with automatic fire from a cover point set up just across the street. From within their target building a few bolts of green and blue plasma answered the alien barrage, punctured by a few grenade blasts. Memorizing the enemy's position, Oriné hunkered back down.

He described the scenario to his companion. "What do we do?"

'Sobotee thought for a moment. "Grenades to attack them from behind. While they're distracted we charge through and link up with our brothers trapped within."

"There are many humans between us and them."

'Sobotee raised his rifle and checked the battery. "Then we shall kill them."

* * *

Yarna 'Orgalmee cursed as several rounds tore into the building, several bouncing off the shielding on his helmet. Behind him, a Grunt squeaked as a ricochet pierced its neck. It fell to the ground, writhing, as a second one tried to assist it. From his position behind a staircase, Elite Major Olah 'Seroumee barked at the Unggoy to get back into position.

"Damn our luck!" Yarna cursed, ducking behind an over-turned table. He looked back at his commanding officer. "How were we to know the humans were sweeping the area?"

Olah leaned out for a better look into the hallway and fired a few shots. Something screamed. "They have been trying to stop our push for some time now, and realized their artillery barrages were ineffective." Suddenly the Sangheili grimaced. "Run, now."

Not bothering to question why, Yarna turned and bolted further back into the building while Olah followed and ducked into another hall. A split second later, three grenades landed in the room and exploded, tearing apart the Unggoy left inside. The concussion of the collective blast heaved Yarna off his feet and he landed hard, cursing all the while.

Suddenly he realized he was alone. Glancing around he saw no cover and heard the humans pounding down on him. Sprawled out and his plasma rifle out of reach, he prepared himself for death. He reached back and grabbed a grenade off his belt.

_Should I fall_, he thought, pulling it tight to his chest, _I shall send these demons to Hell as I ascend to Godhood_. Just as he mentally recited his own last rites, he heard a sudden ruckus. The sound of plasma rifles and grenade discharges combined with human shouts and cries distracted him from his immediate space long enough for a gloved hand to reach down, seize his collar, and pull him up running.

As Yarna struggled to go from prone to sprinting, he saw the one who had saved him. "By the Rings, Oriné!" The other Sangheili looked at him and gave a quick smile. "You are here? What about..."

"Later," Oriné said in a clipped tone, turning sharply and jumping out a broken window into an alley between the buildings. As Yarna did the same, the younger Elite Minor tossed a grenade back through the opening. The explosion caused bits and pieces of concrete to shake loose from the building and rain down on them. "How were you caught so unawares?"

Yarna growled. "We hadn't thought the humans smart enough to actually follow up their barrages with infantry sweeps."

"Underestimating your enemy is the quickest way to death," Oriné chided, leading Yarna in a run around to the front of the building. "With great fortune to you, we were in the area trying to link back up with the main force?"

"Who is 'we,' Oriné? And you still haven't told me—"

Suddenly Oriné stopped, and Yarna nearly plowed into his shoulder. He looked past his stationary friend and saw, outside the building and among the bodies of many fallen humans, one Elite Minor had been cornered. Pressed against a wall without any weapon, a single human had him a gunpoint.

Yarna watched as Oriné's rifle snapped up and fired a single blue bolt. It vaporized half the human's head. The creature dropped to the ground, still and lifeless. The Sangheili against the wall stared at the body for a second, and then his head turned to the two Minors in the alleyway. His mouth opened as if to greet them, but any words he had planned to say never left his throat.

There was a distant crack and a great plume of blood and mortar exploded into existence as a high-caliber round went right through the unknown Elite's head and buried itself in the wall, leaving only a neck attached to the previous owner's shoulders. For a brief, macabre moment the body remained standing, almost seeming to turn towards Yarna and Oriné, but then it collapsed onto its knees and backwards.

Oriné seemed frozen, but Yarna knew the danger. "Sniper!" he shouted, grabbing his friend by the shoulder and pulling him back into the alley. There were three more cracks, and three rounds punched through the stone walls of the buildings but cleanly missed the Sangheili taking refuge there. Yarna tried to catch his breath and cast a glance at his friend. Oriné was perfectly still, the only visible sign of life being the puffs of breath from between his mandibles turning to steam in the cold air. His arms lay limp at his side, plasma rifle in his inert hand.

"Oriné," Yarna asked, "who was that?"

He was silent for a long time as the snowfall began to intensify. Just as Yarna was about to give up all hope of hearing an answer, Oriné's head rose slightly. "He was Hada 'Sobotee," his voice said, sounding tiny and cracked, "a Healer from Joyous Exultation."


	10. Baptism of Fire

**(Author's Note: with this update, chapters one through three have also been updated with the "extra content" included in the recent deviantART re-release of this story. It doesn't change anything in the story itself, but it does add some extra dimensions, as well as explains what Rtas was doing on Jisako. That's all!)**

Chapter 10: Baptism of Fire

Oriné 'Fulsamee turned the scuffed and burned box over in his hands. The rest of Olah's unit was picking through the wreckage of Oriné's previous unit's convoy, finding bodies and salvageable material. So far, Oriné had only found this, but he had not looked very hard. He had been exempted from the search for "personal reasons."

Now he sat on a displaced piece of building, staring numbly at his surviving possessions. He slid the lid open and looked inside; within, undamaged, were the nadier and the human book. His fingers grazed over the cover, but he shut the lid and continued to stare at the box. Once he may have secretly glanced inwards at a few of the words much to his own delight, but now it just seemed pointless.

_Hada_, he thought glumly. One of his closest friends was now dead. They had picked up what remained of his body and laid it out in the street next to the others they were finding now. When the rest of the army caught up with them, Yarna had told him, they would have the corpses sent back for proper internment on their home worlds. That did nothing to soothe Oriné, however, as he would repeatedly look over at the fallen form of his comrade then be forced to look away by the sight of it. It wounded him inside, too, to know that he couldn't stomach the sight of his friend even as he was without a head. He felt like he had betrayed him.

A shadow fell across him and Oriné started, finding himself looking up into Olah 'Seroumee's face. The grave Sangheili nodded at the box. "I am glad to see you've kept them safe all this time."

Oriné merely lowered his head. He had nothing to say.

There was a moment where Olah did not speak as well. "I'm placing you in Yarna's lance for the time being," he said. "If one of the leaders should fall, you will take his place and command his lance. I've also added you as part of the roster for Faithful Unit. Welcome back." The shadow moved away, and Oriné nodded to no one but himself. The motion revealed a pile of dead Grunts that had been pulled from the wreckage and unceremoniously clumped together. Near the bottom, the former member of Divine Unit recognized the Unggoy that had been under his command. A new wave of sorrow crashed upon him as he realized that he had never bothered to learn their names.

He almost wailed aloud, but he heard Olah's call to rise and prepare to move out, and as he stood Yarna came up behind him and put a comforting hand on his shoulder. "You shall be fine," he said, touching foreheads. "Live for the lives they no longer have, and meet them on the Great Journey."

Sighing, Oriné nodded and allowed his friend to lead him to the front of the column.

* * *

The vehicles passed the last vestiges of humanity and sped out into the snowy landscape. Visible on the same plain were other convoys that had broken through and were picking up speed to get as far away from the city as fast as possible. A few artillery cannons took potshots at them, but largely they were unimpeded.

Cheers went out across the Battle Net, warriors celebrating their freedom from the concrete hell that had been Tropicas. There were a few songs here and there, disharmonious against each other, and there were a few token Majors who tried to keep the peace among their units, but Olah was silent, as always.

Even Oriné felt new life breathed into him as he watched the city fall away behind them. Despite everything that had happened, he felt he could still carry on. Beside him in the seat, the Kig-Yar mercenary Maq jabbered sullenly at the noise on the radio. Yarna's lance was slightly bigger than Oriné's had been, accommodating two Jackals as well as the three usual Grunts. When Oriné had been transferred in, Yarna had been relieved for the help. Apparently keeping the Kig-Yar from abusing the Unggoy was a task.

"What has fouled your mood now, Maq?" Oriné asked, more out of necessity than genuine compassion. Perhaps the Jackal knew it, because he fixed the Sangheili with a hateful glare before replying.

"I do not like the cold or the Unggoy stink over everything," he muttered.

Oriné cocked his head to the side. "The cold cannot be helped, and neither can the smell. You must learn to deal with each."

Continuing to grumble, Maq managed a clipped "Yes, Excellency" before again becoming introspective. Oriné looked at the demented Kig-Yar for a moment longer before turning his attention back to the landscape that sped by.

After the revelry had died down, Olah took to the Battle Net. "Warriors, your ears," he said. Immediately all those in Faithful Unit grew silent and attentive, even sitting straighter in their seats; whatever Olah had done to earn their respect, it had worked. "Tropicas falls behind us, but the greater battle lies ahead, an equal chance for glory or death.

"Our assignment is to protect our artillery mortars while we lay siege to the objective city. The hope of the Hierarchs is that this tactic will create enough damage and chaos as to allow the Inquisitors and their escorts a chance to enter, find the artifact, and escape."

"Glory be to the Hierarchs," the Elites recited, Oriné included, "those who show us the path to Enlightenment and illuminate the Great Journey."

"While deployed," Olah continued, "we can expect harsh counterattacks by the humans. Once we arrive we will move quickly to set up the anti-air defenses and watchtowers for the snipers. Fortifications will have to be constructed on-site, as not as many barricades and plasma covers survived the trip as I had hoped."

Oriné pursed his mandibles in thought. This area was sparsely wooded, but there could be enough trees to cut down to make a perimeter. After a strategic deployment of barriers, the supply crates could likely be arranged to create further cover against enemy fire, as well as hinder the humans' ability to damage the artillery.

It was a long ride, but when it came to an end by the artillery piece Oriné was prepared. As soon as the magnetics were disengaged he slid from his seat and set to work, ordering the Unggoy to locate trees of sufficient size while he and Yarna helped to unlimber and carry the existing plasma covers. As for Maq, he knew the hateful little creature would enjoy a break from the standard work.

"Jackal," he said, nodding in his direction, "go scout the surrounding woods. Find good hiding spots, any place where the natural terrain could work for or against us, and locate a decent fallback position in case we are overrun."

Though it was difficult to tell, Oriné knew that Maq was relieved for the distraction. As he nodded his assent and jogged off, the Elite Minor knew that he would not see the mercenary for several hours as he accomplished the task set before him. Turning back to the work at hand, he found himself grateful for its distraction from his own problems as well.

The artillery piece they were setting up around was a very dominating presence. Its rounded main body with a snub-nose barrel was mounted on a nineteen-meter-long base, making the weapon an intimidating 25 meters tall. On the back was an operating platform where the warriors in charge of manning and firing the gun could plot its firing trajectory. When it fired, Oriné understood from the training simulators, it hurled a blob of burning sapphire plasma in an arc, much akin to a Wraith but several times larger and far more devastating. Compared to human artillery, the heat from the impact incinerated anything too close, but the overpressure was virtually non-existent. It only required a short cool-down period, and could maintain bombardment for hours. From the Shadows, Oriné saw it was currently crewed by two Minors being overseen by a Major. It looked like they were running through diagnostics, so when he passed by to set up the cover, he made sure he didn't interfere.

It was snowing lightly under a darker sky when they finished erecting the defenses, composed of a combination of hard-light barriers and felled tree trunks lashed together with cable. The plasma covers had been deployed at the "front" of the formation, where most of the human attacks were expected to come from. Guard posts had been designated all around the camp and firing notches cut into the wood; in addition, two watchtowers had been deployed to allow the Jackal snipers a clearer field of view through the sparse trees.

Oriné had been selected for first watch, so he was standing alert behind one of the wooden defenses when he saw movement. Alarmed at first, he readied his rifle but quickly stopped when he saw that it was only Maq, returning from his assignment. The Kig-Yar halted at the barrier, looking back and forth along it critically.

"I see the defenses are prepared, Excellency," he muttered.

Oriné nodded. "Have you found what I asked you?"

"Indeed. The ground, though covered with snow, has an underlying layer of branches and leaves which, when lifted, can provide ample concealment. The forest terminates roughly three hundred meters that way"—he gestured towards the city—"into a gentle downward slope, evening out roughly a quarter-kilometer from the edge of the human capital. However, it is open space; any halfway decent sniper will be able to pick off an infantry charge. From the looks of many bodies freezing on the ground out there, they already have." Oriné shuddered in a combination of rage and apprehension. Not being able to fight your enemy face-to-face was degrading and humiliating, and fate left in the hands of a sniper was never a good thing.

"And of fallback positions?"

Maq clicked his beak. "Back the way we came is the best choice, Excellency."

Satisfied for the moment, Oriné stepped back and allowed the Jackal to climb over the chest-high wall into the camp. "Rest while you can," he said. "The bombardment will begin at dawn to cover the advance of the armored ranks into the city. Few will be able to sleep through _that_, I imagine."

His feathers once more ruffled, the Kig-Yar stalked off, muttering.

* * *

Morning came far too quickly, and Oriné's rest cycle was brought to a jarring end when the artillery warmed and fired its first shot. The noise slammed through the camp, startling the defenders awake. Mind in a panic, the Elite Minor scrambled out of his shelter and looked up at the gun. It fired again, sending another blast ripping through the air. All throughout the forest, the echoing reports of the other guns firing in sequence could be heard.

Once he had calmed down, the Elite Minor looked into finding food and his duty post. His breakfast came in the form of a sealed ration pack, and his duty post as a vague wave towards one of the barrier walls they had constructed. As he sucked down the vile sludge he walked in the direction indicated, hoping that his assignment would become clear.

Yarna stood near one of the plasma barriers, gazing out into the sparse forest towards the human city. Oriné came up behind him and tapped him on the shoulder; the other Sangheili turned and smiled.

"Good morning!" he shouted over the thunderous roar of the artillery.

Oriné nodded his own greeting. "What should we be doing?"

Yarna shrugged. "Keep watch, I suppose."

The artillery blasted again and Oriné went back to his old post. Now, with the sound of the cannons and the other soldiers, the forest seemed alive. There was some animal life darting between trees, but they didn't stay in sight very long. For a moment, Oriné dwelt on the thought of these smaller creatures. He doubted they were sapient, but he knew the Forerunner treasured virtually all forms of life. By glassing planets, wasn't the Covenant destroying more than just the heretics? Weren't they destroying nature and the creatures within it? In the spotty records that were in Covenant hands, the Forerunner only very rarely authorized the degree of force that the Covenant had brought to bear on the humans, and only ever in the case of some pandemic disease. The scholars and Inquisitors were still not sure what it was exactly they had been trying to eliminate.

A chime interrupted his internal monologue. "Warriors, your ears," Olah said. "We are expecting the human counterattack to be mounted shortly and quickly. Be on guard. Snipers and spotters to the towers, all sentries be prepared for rapid encounters. Armor will be able to provide support." With that the terse message finished, the soldiers fell into line. Glancing back, Oriné saw that Yarna was crouched and ready for whatever might come at them.

They didn't have long to wait. At first Oriné could only hear something approach between the artillery blasts, but soon it grew to a point where he was able to detect them regularly. He had never heard the sound before, a high whining that grew louder and closer every second, but he knew what they were.

"Vehicles!" someone cried out just as three angular shapes appeared between the trees. They rolled on four wheels each, a primitive but effective method of travel. Each had three passengers, two in the front and one on the back, manning a large weapon. As soon as they were within visual range, the first two gunners began firing, sending dozens of bullets at the encamped warriors. All ducked behind cover, bullets harmlessly pinging off the barriers or digging into the felled trees. A couple of Grunts screamed as the rounds entered and exited their bodies, but as they were able to pull themselves out of the line of fire, Oriné supposed that they were not too seriously wounded.

The third vehicle, what Oriné now realized were the human Warthogs, had a different weapon. It fired some kind of cannon at the artillery, loud but not as deafening as the artillery blasts that continued to fire. The stationary gun was heavily armored, enough to withstand the human assault, but it would be wise to take them out before they turned their destructive force against the artillery's defenders.

"Snipers," Olah said over the radio, "eliminate that gunner!" Almost immediately Oriné saw two thin purple beams lance out from the two sniper towers. One missed completely and the other was too low, melting a clean hole through the windshield. The human passenger slumped to the 

side, clutching at its throat, but the driver swerved and began some kind of evasive maneuver. The Warthogs began a circular pattern of driving around the encampment, the two vehicles with the more conventional weapons taking opposite tracks while the cannon moved much more erratically, often switching direction repeatedly and throwing off the snipers.

But it was the Warthogs with the machine guns that worried Oriné. As Grunts and Elites tried to switch positions to optimize their fire capability they would be cut down. Three Unggoy fell under a barrage and one Sangheili suffered a failing shield, two bullets digging deep into his shoulder. He flinched and fell back, but was still upright.

Out of the corner of his eye, Oriné saw Olah run to Yarna and his nearest comrade. They conversed quickly and intensely before the two nodded and the Elite Major made his way over to Oriné. "'Fulsamee, land a grenade on the next Warthog that passes your position and then watch Yarna and Rabu."

The Elite Minor nodded his affirmative and the Major ran on, obviously coordinating some bigger movement. Instead of wasting his time wondering, however, Oriné turned his attention back to the battle. The Warthog with the cannon was drawing closer; Oriné reached and unclipped a grenade from his belt, holding it at the ready. He could only prime it at the last possible second, otherwise it would become attached to him, and his military career would come to an abrupt and messy end.

As it drew nearer, the gauss-rifle Warthog slowed and began to turn; when it had almost completed its maneuver, Oriné struck. He gave the grenade a quick squeeze to arm it and lobbed it overhand as fast as he could. His aim was not as precise as he would have liked, but the weapon fused to the vehicle on the passenger side. Panicking, the human closest to it swatted at the glowing blue menace for a second, but his futile gesture amounted to nothing. It detonated, instantly killing the passenger and gunner. As the vehicle flipped from the force of the blast, its ammunition stores cooked off, the secondary explosion killing the driver as well. When the ruined husk of the Warthog finally stopped tumbling and came to a rest, there was little evidence of the humans that had once occupied it.

But the battle wasn't over yet. Oriné quickly ducked behind cover as one of the machine guns was swept over his position. Two rounds bounced off his shields and brought them dangerously low, but he regained cover in time. Now with his objective completed, Oriné looked towards Yarna and his companion Rabu and watched with horror as they leaped from their own places as a Warthog barreled down on them.

He rose to shout a warning, but it died in his throat as he saw the two of them orient themselves on either side of the approaching vehicle. As it drew near, they stepped forward and reached out with their hands; when it passed they seized the frame and were pulled along with it. They pulled themselves up on either side and reached in, grabbing the occupants and throwing them out with great force. Rabu's target, the driver, hurtled from the vehicle and slammed into a tree. Yarna's flew several yards and hit the snow, rolling until it stopped, neck at an odd angle. They jumped down as the Warthog lost momentum, and just as the gunner was about to fire on them a purple 

beam shot out and pierced its skull. The human flopped out of the vehicle and hit the ground with an audible thump.

Yarna and Rabu were quick to return to cover. Oriné jogged over and knelt by his friend, who was breathless from exertion and laughter. "You are wrong in the head," he said as he crouched down.

"What," Yarna replied between gasps, "you don't remember that maneuver? You invented it, after all."

Oriné started. "The Yorahii on Jisako?"

"Yes, we got the idea when we first arrived and were beset by Warthogs." Yarna smiled a wide smile. "We call it the Oriné-salal." Oriné remained by him, uncertain of being able to return to his own position, as the remaining vehicle made a final circuit of the encampment, attempting to get in a few last-minute kills, before it sped off. Moments later two Ghosts shot past the encampment, their drivers determined to stop the vehicle from returning to the human city.

_Oriné-salal_, the younger Sangheili thought as he helped the two to their feet. It was traditional Sangheili tongue, meaning "the gambit of Oriné." He smiled despite himself. It was an honorable thing.

* * *

By the third day in the encampment, the unit had fallen into a routine. There had been several counterattacks made by the humans, but they had been as largely ineffectual as the first. Two Unggoy had been killed; their bodies were stripped of anything useful and then moved off to a distant place. Oriné felt bad, but they could not be kept close; though the frost would limit the possibility of disease, it did not remove it completely.

Positions were rotated so that no one's senses could be dulled by monotony. After two days of being on perimeter guard, Oriné found the position as tower spotter quite relaxing. He was on the balcony with the foul-tempered Maq the Jackal, but there was little work to do. Earlier that morning they had seen a small group of human soldiers approach, despite the creatures' white camouflage; in the first shot, the Kig-Yar sniper was able to take one of them down, presumably their leader. As the day progressed, he had been able to take down two more before the remaining humans decided it wasn't worth it and fled. Even then, Maq had wounded one as it ran.

Now things were dull. Oriné leaned against one of the rising walls of the balcony and looked over the forest. The atmosphere had grown moody, threatening another storm. Oriné was not pleased by the thought. He was slated for the first night shift again, and it would be difficult to see in such conditions.

He cast a look at his companion. Maq was admiring his beam rifle, a new model that had been reverse-engineered from Forerunner designs. It fired a thin purple stream of protons that was 

incredibly accurate over any distance they could find here. From what he understood of the workings, the beam was unaffected by wind, the only inaccuracy caused by the shift and dispersal of particles as the beam continued. Several test shots had confirmed that the weapon could fire through five trees before the protons became unstable and separated harmlessly into the air. Its design was quite sleek and smooth as well, a large delta-shaped stock narrowing smoothly into a long, thin barrel. The particle accelerators were visible as a single line on each side of the weapon that became energized when it fired, creating a distinct sound.

"A thing of beauty, Maq?" Oriné asked, looking back into the forest. Nothing was moving except the breeze.

The Kig-Yar almost didn't respond. "Yes, Excellency," he managed, running his clawed hand over the smooth barrel. It glistened even in the overcast light. The Elite Minor waited a moment longer to see if he would say anything else, but silent reverence was all he received. Satisfied his companion was distracted, he decided to descend from the tower and look into his midday meal.

The leap from the tower was not perilous at all, and soon Oriné was on the ground and weaving between the defenses to find his way to the ration station. The packs were already laid out; Oriné took his and began to walk away when he saw Major 'Seroumee standing nearby, arms crossed, gaze intently on the forest. The Elite Minor walked up beside him. Olah inclined his head to acknowledge the new arrival, but did not take his eyes off the woods.

"Excellency..." Oriné began, but the other Sangheili suddenly scowled and waved his hand dismissively.

"Please, Oriné," Olah growled, "if you have something to say, do it without clogging my ears with meaningless honorifics. I know you too well. Filth such as that should be reserved for politicians and Prophets."

The outburst was so unexpected as to leave Oriné momentarily stunned, but he regained his composure. "I was wondering if we were to move into the city at any point, or if we would be confined here for the duration of the battle."

Olah finally turned his eye to look at Oriné. "We are only to move forward as a last resort, but consider us fortunate to be back here. Most of the units sent towards the city have been annihilated, and those that weren't were forced to retreat. Until a cruiser can get close enough to the city to bombard the humans' defenses, we will hold our positions." As if anticipating Oriné's conflicted sense of glory, he added, "The best way for us to serve our Covenant is to survive and keep fighting. Do not be concerned with honor.

"Now return to your post."

Oriné did as he was told, managing to ascend up the small gravity lift to the tower just as the artillery began firing again. As he ate, he tried to tune out the thundering gun and instead focus on his surroundings. The forest, sparse as it was, was decidedly beautiful. He knew the ultimate fate of this planet would be glassing, complete destruction to eradicate the taint of heresy that 

now infested it, but it was a shame to think of these natural creations burning under orbital bombardment.

A low whining noise, barely audible under the regular percussion of the artillery, made itself known to Oriné. The Sangheili looked down and saw a row of armored vehicles filing past. At the head was a flight of Ghosts, the Elite pilots keeping their speed reined in so as not to outpace the others. Trailing behind them were four Wraiths and an accompanying contingent of Spectres. At the back were two Shadows, one full of Grunts and Jackals, the other laden with Elites.

Except, as Oriné looked at them using the zoom function of his helmet, they were not quite Sangheili warriors; the insignia upon their armor revealed them to be Elite Inquisitors. _Perhaps the human line has finally been broken? _Oriné wondered, watching as they passed. He hoped so. Beautiful as this planet was, he was anxious to see this campaign's end, late into it as he had come.

The snow was beginning to fall. Oriné settled into his position, watching the little flakes tumble carefree to the ground. He held out a hand and caught one on the tip of his finger. He was able to study it for but a moment before the intricate crystals that formed it broke down and turned into water. The Sangheili had his suit's thermals cranked all the way up against the cold; being from Sanghelios, he was used to a tropic environment, and this frigid one had been a shock to his system when he arrived. Sometimes he toyed with the idea of turning them down, just to experience the true chill and maybe adjust himself to it, but every time he managed to talk himself into it one of these storms started. The wind would howl, the temperature would drop yet again, and Oriné would leave his thermals at maximum. Doing so did no damage to the armor, but sometimes he felt like the Gods Themselves were trying to convince him to keep to his old ways.

As he sat, he allowed his thoughts to wander to a subject that had always been picking at the back of his mind: _why do we glass the humans' planets? _Never before in Covenant history, even when exterminating other heretic races, had the military used such a display of overkill. The Hierarchs told everybody that it was because the taint the humans bore was so pervasive that the entire planet must be destroyed. But if that were the case, then why bother trying to recover the Forerunner artifacts? By the logic presented by the High Prophets, weren't these relics sullied?

Then again, Oriné thought, the artifacts were considered pure, untouchable by the dark aura of the heretics. But how could you see the taint? Oriné had killed several humans now, and the only dirtying they did was when their blood spilled onto him. If the taint was invisible, unknowable, then how could you tell if it had infected the artifact, or the soldier who killed the human?

A new thought suddenly made him jump, the force of which rocked the balcony. Maq looked back, annoyed, but returned his gaze to the forest. How could you tell, Oriné wondered, if the taint existed at all? There was no evidence of its existence except through hearsay. And for all the Prophets proclaimed, when Oriné read the Divinidex, he had never seen one indication of the humans, heretical or otherwise, except for the sections written by the Hierarchs.

As soon as that thought occurred, however, panic swept through his mind. _Heresy! _He caught his head between his hands, felt the smooth metal beneath his fingers and let the sensation bring him back to reality. How did these filthy thoughts come to his mind? Was this the effect of the taint? Was he really infected, and had just not realized it until now?

_Yes_, he decided, _yes, that's it. The black taint of their heresy cannot be seen, nor touched, nor smelled, but it can be felt._ He quickly began muttering prayers under his breath for forgiveness, but knew this was too much heresy for such simple atonement. Next time he was on the ship, he would have to go to the Cleric, explain himself, and beg for reckoning from the Forerunners.

Exhausted by his own mind, Oriné sat back and watched the snow continue to fall. It had gotten darker since the storm moved in, and now the flakes were coming down much larger. The beauty was still known to him, though his mind now roiled in its own misery.

_If it weren't necessary to cleanse this taint_, he thought, _I'm sure many would like to have their homes here. _Oriné decided that he would not. He had seen many battles here and didn't think he would be able to settle where he knew explosive shells once fell. Besides, it was too cold.

He looked up at the sky once more. Would Hada have wanted such a home? He had seemed to enjoy this landscape.

_This place is better than his home_, Oriné thought darkly. _It is his grave._

* * *

The trees shot past at incredible speed, the falling snow going by even faster in the fading light of the day, but Yarna 'Orgalmee didn't ease off the throttle. It was exhilarating. Memories of High Charity, of racing Eidolons through the streets, came floating back to him. It seemed so long ago. The Ghost handled much the same, though this model was designed for combat, not reckless speed.

Another craft matched speed with him. His companion for this mission was Ayan 'Tapatee, one of the other Minors from Faithful Unit. While neither was part of an armored unit, they had both trained on Institution to pilot light vehicles; with the dedicated squadrons attempting to breach the human line, Major 'Seroumee had volunteered these two warriors to run a scouting/patrol mission through the surrounding woods.

They joked as they maneuvered the craft between the sparse trees. "Lies do not come easily to these mandibles," Yarna was finishing a tale, "but I swear that the very next lecture spoke of mating. Not one hour from my discussion!"

Ayan chuckled lightly. "You are too much, Yarna," he said, then became serious. "We approach the next station." As he said it, another artillery encampment came into view. They slowed their Ghosts and pulled up to the barricades. A Major stalked out to greet them.

"Routine patrol," Yarna said, nodding his greeting to the ranking Sangheili. "Is all well?"

The Major nodded, clearly very weary. "At this moment, yes. The humans have been pushing hard in this sector to break through. If you continue in this direction, be wary of ambush. I lost a full lance just yesterday."

The pair thanked him and sped along, relaying the report to Olah. Expecting the line of conversation to return to its previous direction, Yarna was caught by surprise by his companion's question.

"Are they true, the rumors of your friend Oriné?" asked Ayan.

"That depends. What are these rumors?"

"That he is a womanizer and a thief. That he was punished for his actions but was able to use family ties to sidestep the consequences and come here."

Yarna wanted to feel indignity for his friend, but the thought of him as a womanizing bandit made him laugh too hard. "I do not think," he said after he had finished, "that I have ever heard a more inaccurate description of Oriné in my life."

The pair made a slight turn, keeping to the route. "Then by all means, correct me."

"It is true what you've heard about him and the Head Master's daughter," conceded Yarna. The Ghost made an unfamiliar sound, and the Sangheili frowned at it, fiddling with one of the controls until it stopped. "But in that situation, Oriné was far more the victim than the perpetrator."

"What of his family? I heard that it was his brother's high rank that got him excused from gulag duty."

The Ghost made the sound again. What was it trying to say? "Having not met the elder 'Fulsamee, I cannot speak for him. But Oriné would not use his Lineage as a bargaining chip. He is too proud, if anything."

Ayan was saying something, but Yarna didn't pay attention. The Ghost continued to make the annoying keening noise. He only caught the last part: "I have heard his sister is a priestess, though she doesn't deserve the honor."

_This is becoming ridiculous_, Yarna thought, both of his Ghost and Ayan's wild accusations. He spread his mandibles to reply, in no uncertain terms, that Ayan knew nothing of the situation, but suddenly everything went wrong all at once.

He heard the crack about half a second before his head snapped back, seemingly of its own volition, and wrenched the muscles in his neck. As his spine rebounded, his mind recalled the sound: a human sniper rifle. _Gods_, he thought, head in a panic and body slack, _I am slain! _However, as the Ghost veered to one side, its anti-gravity generator having just suffered a critical 

mechanical failure, Yarna realized he felt the movement. He returned to his senses but not fast enough to accommodate for the broken vehicle, and it smashed full speed into a tree. He was hurled through the air and landed three meters away.

Forcing his head up despite the agonizing pain, he saw that his Ghost had turned over, right wing snapped off. The noise must have been a warning of some kind. The surprise of the failing technology would have to wait, though; a second later, there was another sniper shot and a 14.5 mm round embedded itself in the ground right next to his arm. Possessed of renewed urgency, Yarna scrambled over to the damaged vehicle, crouching in the cover provided by the Ghost and the tree. He reached a hand up and felt all along his helmet; after just a moment's searching, he found a deep hole cutting right into the helmet. Panicking once more, he undid the fasteners and pulled off the helmet. The bullet, slowed by his shielding and the metal of the headgear, had stopped just short of penetrating the final layer of armor.

_Thank the Forerunners_, he thought, gasping as his hearts caught up to him. He replaced the helmet and crouched down further, hearing the sound of automatic fire starting up. Tracers whipped by overhead, cutting swathes through the increasingly thick snowfall.

A soft whine preceded Ayan's approach. He hovered into place and started firing in the direction of the attacking humans. "Keep your head down," Yarna called out to him. The other Elite Minor did as he suggested, and a white vapor trail ripped through the air near his head.

"If they do not have rockets here," shouted Ayan, "they soon will, and we'll be easy targets."

Understanding his meaning, Yarna keyed the Battle Net and contacted Olah. "Major, we are pinned down roughly half a kilometer to the northwest from artillery station four and require reinforcements."

Olah's gruff voice was a relief to hear. "What is their strength?"

"Unknown. At least one sniper and several riflemen."

"Hold your position. Reinforcements will arrive shortly."

* * *

Oriné had just ridden the gravity lift up to the top of the tower for the night's watch when he heard Olah's bellowing voice: "'Bodnolee! 'Fulsamee! 'Cklovee!" There was an urgency in his voice that Oriné had never heard, but whatever it was compelled him to immediately turn on his heel and jump down. He jogged over to where he knew the Major would be.

"What is it?" he asked just as the other two arrived.

"Yarna and Ayan are pinned down half a kilometer northwest from the fourth artillery station," Olah said. "Head to the rear, commandeer a Spectre, and retrieve them. Time is of the essence! Go!"

"Yes, Excellency!" The three immediately took off at a full sprint, leaping over barricades and dashing between Unggoy. The rear line was a good two hundred meters through the forest, but even so they were motivated, plunging through the dark. In just a few minutes of running they had reached their destination: the vehicle depot situated on the rear line. Oriné's chest was heaving, but they didn't slow down as they blazed past the sentry.

"What is the meaning of this?" asked one Elite Minor, closest to their chosen Spectre.

"Our brothers are pinned down," Rabu 'Cklovee said, gently clapping the Sangheili on the shoulder. Oriné recognized him as the one who had boarded that Warthog with Yarna, the maneuver they had called the Oriné-salal. "We must rescue them."

"Rabu, take the gun," ordered 'Bodnolee, hefting himself into the driver's seat. "Oriné, you're on the side. Keep your wits about you." Though he was not a higher rank than either of them, and indeed Oriné's honor markings usually gave him a slightly elevated position, both he and Rabu followed what Toro 'Bodnolee told them. This was his third campaign; should he survive it, Oriné understood he was eligible for promotion to Major.

The attendant Minor signaled the guards to make room for the departing vehicle. "Our ships in space report the storm is intensifying. Be wary."

"Thank you for your concern," grunted Rabu as 'Bodnolee gunned the boost thruster and tore out of the depot.

The Minor turned out to be quite correct; hardly two minutes after they left the snow was coming down so thickly that Oriné could barely see the cockpit of the very vehicle he rode on, though the onset of night likely did not help. Trees appeared from the darkness, swept very near to the wing the Sangheili sat upon, and then vanished just as suddenly.

"It will be difficult to see them," said Rabu. Oriné heard the mechanical whir as he moved the gun back and forth.

They passed the third station, barely seeing it as they went. "Something tells me they won't be too difficult to find," commented Oriné. Just a short time later, artillery station four shot past.

"'Cklovee, get ready," 'Bodnolee said. "'Fulsamee, as soon as we reach them, jump and roll." They both affirmed. Oriné made sure his rifle was attached firmly to his hip; though having it drawn would mean he'd be ready all the sooner, it also meant that he could lose his grip on it upon impact with the ground.

The first sign they were near came when three tracer rounds zipped out of the darkness and punched holes in the frame right next to Oriné's shoulder. Immediately Rabu swiveled the turret in the direction it came from and fired, blue plasma bolts reflecting off the snow. More bullets came at them, making a horrifying stunning light show of burning topaz and sapphire in the night air.

"Now, Oriné!" Without thinking, Oriné tensed his legs and leaped off to the side, tucking his shoulder and rolling as soon as he hit the ground. He tumbled through the rising snow, coming to a stop on his belly. In an instant he had his rifle up and ready. The Spectre sped off into the dark, only visible from the occasional blue flare of the boost and the quick accurate bursts from the mounted gun on the back. Two grenade blasts went up, silhouetting an overturned Ghost that was nose-first into a tree. Judging that to be his best bet, Oriné got up and ran over, staying as low as he could.

As he drew nearer, his sharp eyes made out another shape crouched nearby. It suddenly drew itself up, leaned over the top of the ruined vehicle, and fired three green bolts of energy at some unseen foe before ducking down. Oriné slid to a stop next to the shape, which reeled in surprise but quickly regained composure.

"Oriné!"

Now he recognized him. "Yarna, are you wounded?"

"No," the Elite Minor said.

"Where's Ayan?"

"Strafing around. His Ghost is still intact."

Oriné stood and fired several shots. He was answered as a hail of lead flew at him. A few bullets pinged off his shield, but he dropped back down before they could cause him any permanent harm. He eyed the pistol in his friend's hand. "Where is your rifle?"

He shook his head. "Lost in the crash," said Yarna. "This is the second time you've come to my rescue. Is it fate or the Gods that make you watch over me, dear friend?"

The younger Sangheili couldn't help but smile. "A higher power, our mutual friend and commanding officer."

Another grenade detonated nearby, shaking the Ghost. Yarna winced. "The fusion core must be close to exploding. This is no longer safe cover."

"Contact Ayan," Oriné said, "tell him to fall back. We'll get out of here immediately." As Yarna did that, Oriné opened his own channel on the Battle Net and linked up with 'Bodnolee. "I have Yarna, he is unwounded. Ayan will be joining us shortly."

"Affirmative," replied Toro. "Falling back."

"Cover!" Yarna suddenly yelled. Oriné barely reacted in time, throwing himself to the ground as a much stronger explosion shook the ground and threw the already damaged Ghost over their 

heads, metal raining down on them. A shrill alarm sounded in his ears; his shields were down, but he could see the faint blue glow of a rapidly approaching Spectre.

A Ghost swung around behind them. "Rockets!" cried Ayan.

"Get on! Now!" 'Bondolee shouted. Oriné and Yarna started to rise, but heard a sharp sound behind them. Yarna started to turn, not knowing what the sound was, but Oriné instantly recognized it as a fusion core going critical.

Oriné flung himself against Yarna's back, knocking him to the ground just as the beaten Ghost exploded, filling the air with shrapnel and the smell of ozone. Rabu cried out as a shard pierced his shields and dug into his upper arm. Picking themselves up once more, the two Sangheili on the ground charged forward and slid into the nooks on the wings of the Spectre.

"Haste!" Oriné cried, feeling the magnets grab his belt and secure him. 'Bodnolee wasted no time gunning the engine as the human fire intensified, two more rockets shooting from the night but fortunately missing the vehicles. As both vehicles leaned on the boost, the sounds of battle fell far behind them. Oriné slumped against the Spectre's hull and sighed. They had made it.

Once safely back at their proper artillery station, they were greeted with cheers. The Unggoy and Kig-Yar crowded around them while the artillery crew applauded and saluted from their platform. Out of the corner of his eye, Oriné saw Yarna clap Ayan heartily on the back.

"You see?" said the elder Sangheili. "He's not as terrible as they say."

Ayan 'Tapatee just shook his head and chuckled wearily. "No, he's not."

* * *

Two weeks later the call came to pull back from the planet. Spirits descended from the sky to pick up the embattled warriors and what hardware could be salvaged; the retreat order came so suddenly that there had been no time to break down the artillery, and they would be left on the surface. Of course, there was no concern that the humans would capture them and learn any secrets. Everyone knew that the retreat meant the planet's imminent destruction.

First supervising he and Yarna's Grunts as they loaded on, Oriné found his place in one of the dropships and eased himself into the troop slot. A sense of giddy horror seized his stomachs: he had survived. It had been terrible and beautiful, all at once, and his training had saved his life on more than one occasion, but now, looking back, it was a wonder. Bullets had filled the air, his life had been in danger almost every second of every day. He reveled in it.

But now he was weary, and the weight of what he had seen, what he had done, the friends he had lost... it was settling onto his shoulders. The giddiness was smothered, leaving only a hollow feeling. Hada 'Sobotee had been his close friend on the gulag, and had even managed to accompany him out here. But Hada was dead, and Oriné was alive. Did that make sense?

_Why is my life worth more than his? _Oriné wondered, sorrow setting in again. _Why did the Forerunners find me worthier of their grace than he? He was a Healer; I am a warrior. He could give life, I can only take it away._

The slots beside him filled up and the door closed. From the cockpit, the pilot announced their departure and Oriné felt the deck lift beneath him. Gazing out of the small window he was allowed, he watched as the trees fell past his view and he finally was able to see the city he had fought so hard to take, given up so much, and yet had never set foot in or laid eyes upon. It was a sprawling human metropolis, low buildings with arched roofs to keep the snow from settling. There were stills signs of lingering battle, a few anti-air cannons firing at a flight of Banshees that were covering the dropships' retreat.

The city itself, however, stood out. It was ordered and planned, while the beautiful nature all around it was wild, chaotic; it looked like a cancer on the face of the world. Oriné remembered the undetectable taint that had pervaded even him and frowned. He wished the endearing landscape could be spared, but the humans, affronts as they were, could not be allowed to continue.

Once in space, the Spirit dropship maneuvered its way through the atmospheric wreckage to the _Transcendent Voyager_. It and three other dropships made their way to the starboard hangars and landed, disgorging their troops. All made their way quickly out of the hangar; these would return to the planet to pick up more soldiers, which would involve lowering the force fields and exposing the entire hangar to space. No one wanted to end up in the vacuum.

However, while most of the returned warriors filed off to find their quarters, Oriné found the main gravity lift and took it up to the observation deck. He was happy to see that the ship was oriented properly to allow him a view of the planet. He remembered seeing the planet from the deck of the _Domain of Prosperity_, when he had first arrived. It seemed so long ago.

They were still evacuating people from the planet, so Oriné knew he had time to wait. He sat in the small garden and meditated, communing with the Gods as best he could. His mind was still swimming with confused, contradicting emotions, but at the end of an hour he had resolved that all of them together made up one strong feeling: relief. Relief at having survived, relief at having left.

"Look, they're beginning!" Oriné opened his eyes and saw that a small crowd had gathered, mostly curios Grunts and Jackals, though a Hunter pair was present as well. He stood and walked to a place where he could see the planet.

Pearl was now fully framed in the windows, but even from this distance Oriné could make out the cruisers that had taken up geosynchronous positions just above the atmosphere. His keen Sangheili eyes strained to see the plasma as it fell from the ships and bombarded the atmosphere. As they went, they left trails of disturbed clouds and fire in their wake.

From here, Oriné tried to imagine the places he had seen burning, being incinerated into vapor by the unthinkably hot bombs being dropped. The visions of Tropicas, the human city, filled him 

with nothing. Just thinking of his experiences sapped his emotion so much that he didn't even feel satisfaction at its destruction. He wondered if Hada's body had been recovered, or if it had stayed down there with all the dead Unggoy and Kig-Yar and humans.

_A world is your funeral pyre, Hada 'Sobotee_, Oriné thought. _You've earned such a splendor._ One day, Oriné resolved, he would see him on the Great Journey. And on that day, he would be happy.

Now the true physical weariness was felt by the Sangheili. Once he had thought he would feel sadness to see such a beautiful place burn, but in just a short time, now he felt nothing. _I am a soldier now_.

He left the observation deck. As he walked away, Pearl burned.

* * *

From space, Joyous Exultation had looked a little bit like Sanghelios, just with less ocean and more land. It also only had one moon that hung in the sky, glittering on the dark side with military installations, war academies much smaller than Institution, both in size and curriculum.

However, on the ground, Oriné saw that the buildings were squatter than on Sanghelios, emphasizing floor space per story instead of the numbers tall. Only a few spires rose here and there, and Oriné recognized them as religious temples, outposts for the Convent. This planet was a humble colony and had no true attraction, except that the great war hero, Supreme Commander Xytan Jar 'Wattinree had his estate here. But Oriné's destination took him well beyond that area, and in fact well beyond the cities of small, flat buildings.

For his errand, he had been lent a Chimera. As he drove over the dirt road, the farmers and children knee-deep in water in the fields on either side looked up to watch his passing. It was rare to see such a craft this far out. Most walked or used shabbier vehicles design for transporting grains and livestock to the markets and bazaars in the city.

The home he was looking for was a kilometer down the road, past the small farms and agricultural plants that made up the area. It was very cozy, situated on an open plain of grass with a small hill behind it. A little hatchling played with her mother on the visible side, the older Sangheili holding her to the ground and tickling her vulnerable belly. Judging by the motions made by the smaller form, she was laughing hysterically.

Oriné brought the Chimera to a stop several meters in front of the home, where a stone-lined path led up to the front door. As he powered down the core, he looked over at the passenger seat. Cradled in the cup-shaped chair was a helmet. Its cobalt surface was scuffed and scratched, one deep gash cutting diagonally across the top but not piercing the inner armor. It had seen a lot of action, he knew. It had belonged to Oriné, the one he had worn on Pearl throughout the campaign. Now, though, it would serve a new purpose, since the one he should have brought...

But why did he bring it? It was tradition, yes, but why did _he _bring it? Others had known Hada 'Sobotee, and likely some of them knew him better than Oriné. So why was he bringing it and subjecting himself to this.

_Because I was there_, he told himself. _Because in those few days, we grew close, because we shed blood together. The snow was stained purple from both our wounds, and we cried and triumphed together._

_Because he was my friend._

Sighing, the Elite Minor got out of the driver's seat. His new combat harness glistened in the sun, unbearably clean. He had gotten new armor because his old one had seen so much punishment that it offered little protection. The shield generator had been close to burning out, the technicians had said. He had used them too much, pushed them too hard. He was supposed to be careful with this new one.

_What is less life-threatening than this? _He walked around the front of the Chimera and scooped the damaged helmet out of the seat, running a finger over the valleys that had been carved into it.

"Oh, I'm sorry," said a voice behind him. He jumped, surprised, and dropped the helmet back into the vehicle. Turning around, he came face-to-face with a male Sangheili dressed in soiled farmer's trousers. A long scar ran down the side of his neck, but it showed no burn tissue. Perhaps it was a wound from a human combat knife.

The man smiled, slightly sheepishly. "From behind, you looked like my son. If I had realized it was somebody else, I would have made some attempt at getting clean." He gestured to his trousers, mud encrusted around the bottoms and covered in dirt. "So what brings you out this far, warrior? News of my son?"

Oriné tried to speak, but even though his mandibles opened he could make no sound. The man looked at him quizzically, no sign of understanding in his features. A knot formed in the Elite Minor's throat and he became acutely aware of the off-rhythm beat of his hearts.

Slowly he reached back, took the helmet, and brought it out of the seat again. He cradled it for just a moment, and then held it in front of him with both hands. "Are you Ladu 'Sobotee?"

Ladu nodded, his eyes falling to look at what was being presented to him. Oriné could not take his eyes off the other's face, not as his mandibles slackened, not when his eyes widened, and certainly not when his eyes, moist, looked up again. The older male's mandibles twitched, attempting speech, but there was no sound. Oriné understood.

"We were warriors together," said the Minor. "He was my friend."

Numbness seemed to take the man, and he made a vague invitational gesture as he turned to go back into his house. Oriné followed behind him; the confident posture this farmer had just moments before was completely gone. He sort of slumped along the path.

As they went, Oriné looked up at the hill. The hatchling and her mother had stopped playing and were looking at him now.

Despite everything, he couldn't bring himself to nod hello.


	11. Heresy

Chapter 11: Heresy

"Make way!" Oriné 'Fulsamee's bellowing voice carried far down the hallway, and everyone who heard it pressed themselves against the bulkheads. Three haggard soot-stained Sangheili warriors barreled down the corridor; between Yarna 'Orgalmee and Oriné was held a badly wounded Rabu 'Cklovee. Two pairs of booted hooves clanged against the deck as the third dragged, rivulets of blood trailing down and smearing against the polished floor.

"Cursed creatures!" Rabu howled, head thrashing about, sending droplets of violet liquid every which way. They splattered against the already numerous stains on his companions' combat harnesses. "I will wrench their very skulls from their heads, and then strike their souls to Hell with them!"

"It strikes me as impossible to kill someone with their own skull... _step aside!_" Yarna elbowed a Kig-Yar out of the way none too gently, slamming it face-first into the wall. It rebounded but managed to keep its balance, jabbering unknowable curses through its damaged snout. The trio simply continued on their way.

"I will find a way," Rabu murmured. His motions were slowing. Oriné realized he was going into shock. _There is not much time_, he thought; saying it out loud would not help his friend resist his own body's attempts at salvation. Directly ahead, however, he could see the medical bay.

The door parted swiftly enough that they didn't need to break their stride. "Healer!" Yarna called, and almost instantly a Sangheili in blue armor with white markings was with them.

"There is a bed over here," he said, motioning to an empty gel bed. "Lay him down." Gently, but with haste, the two Elite Minors spread him out on the soft material. Immediately the Healer brought up the holographic controls, setting the bed to scanning his vitals while he gestured to an Unggoy with a depository of tools. "What happened to him?"

Oriné looked at the gaping abdominal wound. Amidst the blood and viscera, he could see his friend's vital organs beneath the torn skin. "During evacuation the humans were shelling us," he said, recalling the rocky, mountainous terrain they had been on just a short while ago. "We were just boarding a Spirit when one landed close by and filled the air with stone. He was the closest to the impact."

By now the Grunt Healer had arrived and the Sangheili had selected an injector. The medical suite, having calculated Rabu's vitals, opened a compartment nearby from which he selected a vial filled with a clear liquid. Prepping the injector, the Healer bent over the half-conscious warrior. "This is a strong anesthetic," he said, pressing the device against Rabu's upper arm and squeezing the contact. "You will be unconscious for quite a while." The wounded soldier looked ready to protest, but the drug took effect immediately and his eyes rolled back and he went still. The steady pulsing of the hologram belied his deathly state.

"Will he be all right?" asked Yarna.

The Healer gave the wound a closer appraisal. "There is severe tissue and intestinal damage, possibly more than I can see from here if the shrapnel splintered any more inside him. It's possible the stone fragmented inside and ricocheted off his ribcage. However, for now it looks like it missed his lung and his spine is intact." He looked up at the two idling warriors. "I must insist that you leave. I will need all the space I have available." They assented, leaving after a final look and a quick prayer.

As the door to the medical bay closed behind them, Yarna touched foreheads with Oriné. "Do not fear, my friend; I do not think you will have to deliver any news to his honorable parents any time soon."

The younger Sangheili shook his head. It had been a year since his visit to Joyous Exultation, when he delivered news of Hada 'Sobotee's death to the deceased warrior's father. His mother had looked on, but did not come in, instead keeping Hada's hatchling sister occupied. The child could not have been more than two years of age.

A whole year and two campaigns; first on the outer colony Coppice, then the forested moon called Sylvan. They had both been trying fights for survival, but Oriné triumphed and came out alive each time. Coppice had been an agricultural center with a long rainy season, most of which Faithful Unit had spent holed up in a muddy trench, pushing against the strong human armored defenses. When the S'gor Legion was finally rotated out they were dropped almost immediately on Sylvan, where the Covenant had been searching for what a cruiser's luminary reported as a Reliquary. Though they had captured most of the planet in their search, dealing with the humans' guerilla warfare tactics was a frightening experience. Faithful Unit had been ordered into the thick, dark forests more than once, and most of the time barely got out with their lives. Oriné had seen more Grunts die there than on Pearl and Coppice combined.

Now, however, the entire legion was up for shore leave, barring a sudden wartime development. And based on the overall pace of the war, Oriné doubted such an occurrence would happen. The _Transcendent Voyager _had been selected for glassing duty, but afterwards was bound for the world Unifying Faith. It was a devout colony, with only a small sector dedicated to farming. By and large it was a merchant planet, meaning significant presence of many of the Covenant client races; but for Sangheili warriors with a month of shore leave it had another attraction: females. Unifying Faith was renowned for its beautiful, holy dancers, known as saitarelé. Saitarelé were culled from Sangheili applicants all over Covenant space. After the daughters of distinguished Clans were brought to appropriate houses, called saitarels, only the most beautiful and graceful among them were chosen. They were then put through a rigorous process that rivaled those used to select priestesses and clerics. Once they were finished, they came out as shapely and capable ecclesiastics, using smooth, sultry body language to tell tales of valor on the battlefield, recreate the legends of Forerunners, or just to entertain at high-level banquets and promotion ceremonies.

The odds that an Elite Minor would be invited to such an occasion were astronomical, but still they dreamed.

However, as excited as Oriné was to see the saitarelé, he wished to have the opportunity to see his family again.

By now the two warriors had reached their armory. It was shared between Faithful and Solemn Units, but as the door swished open they saw most had already come and gone. Only two individuals remained, one from Solemn Unit and the other Enma 'Gubotee, the newest member of Faithful Unit. After Coppice, Toro 'Bodnolee had indeed been promoted to Major and transferred to another ship; at first Oriné was going to take control of his lance, but 'Gubotee was transferred in and took them instead.

The young warrior, already down to his dermo-suit, looked up at their entry. "Rabu?" he asked, expectant.

"He will be fine," assured Yarna. "He will just be late for the festivities on Unifying Faith." The two crossed over to the containers fitted into the wall. First they disarmed, dumping their weapons into a repository bin that soon slid into the wall and gave a contented beep. After that they began to strip off and clean their armor using brushes and gelstones. As he went, Oriné inspected each piece, looking for signs of critical failure; if he found serious enough damage, he would send the component to reclamation to be broken down and recycled.

He remembered after his first campaign on Pearl, when his entire combat harness had been reclaimed. The fighting on Coppice and Sylvan had been considerable, but both combined hadn't been as stressful, on his hardware or his mind, as that frozen world had been. Often he overheard more experienced veterans commenting how Pearl had been the worst they had seen; Oriné just wondered how the humans had managed to establish a colony there. The more he fought, the more he realized how versatile they were, capable of adapting to situations that most Sangheili would have just written off as lost.

Oriné finished with his helmet and was in the process of undoing his mandible guards when the door to the armory opened. Turning, the three Elites saw Major Olah 'Seroumee standing there, studying them. Oriné and Yarna straightened up, but only nodded hello; Enma jumped to his feet and saluted so intensely that Oriné feared he would strain something.

Olah eyed the new recruit, clicked his mandibles, and then set his gaze on Oriné. "You have a transmission," he said simply, then turned and walked out of the armory and back into the halls. 'Gubotee looked bewildered, but Yarna and Oriné knew that Olah was like that: detached, official, and seemingly without a heart. They knew his apparent lack of concern for Rabu was because he likely stopped by the medical bay to check on him before going to the armory.

However, Oriné's mind was elsewhere. Why would he have a transmission? Though many times he had wished to send a message back to Sanghelios, his priority level was very low; non-combatants had even lower priority, so who would bother, or be able, to send him a communiqué?

For a moment, he entertained the thought that it was Orna. Being a Ship Master, he could theoretically have enough priority to contact his little brother, but why would he? They hadn't 

spoken since he had returned from Jisako. It wasn't for any lost love, but instead because both were incredibly busy.

Among all of this, Oriné decided, one fact was clear: it would be rude to keep the sender waiting. Standing up, he nodded his farewells to his comrades and left the armory, finding the nearest gravity lift and riding it to the command deck. He walked past the bridge on his way to the transmission room and took the opportunity to peek through the grating. Nothing was very visible, but he saw movement of gold armor within. Just as he began to continue on his way the door opened and the Ship Commander stepped out. Instantly Oriné went rigid, saluting and bowing, as was the custom when in the presence of an astronomically superior officer. The commander simply nodded and continued on his way.

When he reached the transmission room, Oriné walked up to the Elite Minor on duty. "Oriné 'Fulsamee," he told him, and the keeper nodded, pointing him to a small screen located in an open, ovaloid chamber. Oriné stepped in and a force field snapped into life behind him, offering some semblance of privacy. He keyed in his acceptance code and watched as the screen fuzzed for a moment and resolved into the familiar face of an older, tired looking Sangheili.

"Father," Oriné said, startled. How had he obtained priority enough to send this?

"Oriné," said Orita. He sounded very weary, strained even, as if he had slept very little in several days. "I trust you are well."

"I am," the younger 'Fulsamee said. "How are you? And mother?"

There was hesitation in his father's tone. "We have been better. I assume you are wondering why we are calling you so?"

Oriné nodded.

"I am unsure how to say this, but I must be concise: your sister has been accused of heresy." It took a moment for the Elite Minor to understand the words, but when he did it felt like someone had just smashed him in the chest with a pendulum. His mind felt like it was full of mire. Heresy was a dire charge; just to imply such a thing was damaging to one's honor, but being outright accused of it was like a death sentence. Even those few who were found innocent were sullied for the rest of their lives, their families spoken of in harsh, quiet whispers over goblets in banquets.

Still, because of this, Oriné knew there were channels to be followed so that such a harsh allegation could not be given lightly. "There must be a mistake," he said, though with less fervor than he had intended. "Fulsa is a devout and faithful priestess. This charge must be contested."

"We did," said Orita. "The moment it was levied, your mother and I censured, but the one who accused her has far higher connections than we do. None of the politicians or clerics I was able to persuade could denounce the charges."

Oriné's mandibles slackened. At first he was filled with rage: there had already been time for censuring and gathering support? _Why was I not told of this sooner?! _Such processes took months of debate and communication. By now the charges were official. Soon, though, his burning fury was dulled: of course he could not be reached. Until this very day he had been entrenched in battle, unable to return even if he had been aware of these proceedings. Still, he wished he had known. Perhaps he could have found somebody to help...

The Elite Minor forced himself into composure. "What is happening now?"

"Arrangements are being made for her trial. It will take place before the Council of Masters on High Charity." Oriné winced, but knew this was proper. Charges of heresy among military or religious offices had to be brought before the Council of Masters and the Hierarchs. His sister, as a Priestess of the First Circle, was in a high enough position that this accusation was damaging not only to her own reputation and her family's, but to the Covenant at large. If she was found guilty of heresy, the fact that the Covenant had passed such an individual into the ranks of their holy practitioners would lead to dishonor among many. Any individual who had confessed to Fulsa would need be reevaluated lest they were truly heretical and she only passed them due to her own darkness.

_Even if she is found innocent_, Oriné realized, _she will likely lose her position._

Orita continued, "Your mother and I are en-route to the holy city now. A courier vessel should find its way to your location soon to carry you back as well."

"What of Orna? Will he be coming?"

"No. We could not reach him. We are blessed to have contacted you."

_Blessed? I find it hard to believe anything of our family is blessed anymore. _"Very well, I will see you soon." Oriné touched his bare forehead to the screen; hundreds of light-years away, his father did the same. The transmission cut out.

Oriné slumped against the wall. Everything had just changed. Where once there were thoughts of saitarelé, now there was only concern. Concern, fear, confusion, and anger. Why? Fulsa had done nothing to deserve this. Prior to his deployment on Coppice, he had been poking about on the Com Net and found a report about a new First Circle priestess, Fulsa of Sam, and her diligent studies in the Forerunners language. In the report a Third Circle priestess had praised his sister for her ingenuity, saying that if anyone showed potential to develop a full codex later in life it was Fulsa.

How, in the space of a year, had she gone from promising legacy to reviled heretic?

Collecting himself, Oriné left the communications chamber and made his way back to the armory. Yarna and Enma were still there, chatting idly about their leave. Oriné sat down in front of his container and continued his dress-down, as if he had never left. It was a few minutes 

before he became aware of a pressing silence; turning, he saw the two of them looking intently at him.

"Well?" asked Yarna.

"I think," Oriné began, suddenly finding it difficult to talk, "that I will not be accompanying you to Unifying Faith." It hit him then, the full force of what was happening, what was about to happen. Unable to contain it, he doubled over, put his face in his gauntleted hands, and wept bitterly.

Though they didn't know what was going on, his two friends comforted him.

* * *

The courier ship arrived later that day. Ordinarily, a journey from High Charity to the front line would have taken a day or two in Slipspace, but couriers were designed to navigate the ebbs and flows of the eleventh dimension with speed and agility. By the time it came up on the port side, Oriné was ready: his meager belongings were packed into a small trunk. He still wore his armor, though he had cleaned it thoroughly. It was mostly presentable, except for a few deep scratches that could not be repaired; he would have liked a new set for this trip, but none could be afforded him. While the warriors were on leave, the ship would restock its supplies and materials as well.

Yarna saw him off from the hangar as a Spirit waited. They touched foreheads. "Good luck," the slightly older Sangheili said. "I will woo a dancer for you while you're gone. She'll be waiting for your return."

"Thank you," Oriné said and smiled, though it felt hollow.

Once he transferred over to the ship, the _Relentless_, he was guided to his quarters. It was a single room with all the basic amenities, including, much to Oriné's surprise, a bath. Courier ships needed less than two dozen to crew them, Oriné understood, so despite the lack of glory in their tasks those who served on them were treated very well.

The deckhand who got him settled informed him that the water was heated and recycled every hour. He went on to say their expected arrival at High Charity was in ten hours. _Plenty of time for bathing and sleeping_, the Elite Minor decided. He left his things in one corner of the room, disrobed, and eased himself into the small pool. The warmth rushed over him and an exhilarating feeling of luxury swept through his mind. It had been a long time since he had a true bath.

Still, try as he might he could not properly enjoy it. His thoughts were occupied too much by his doomed sister and the anguish she and their parents must be feeling. After scrubbing himself down with a pumice stone, taking care to avoid a fresh scar on his leg caused by the same incident that had so wounded poor Rabu, he stepped out of the bath, dried himself, and lay down in the military standard gel bed.

* * *

_Fulsa swept her hand through the water, sending a high, arcing wave right into Oriné's face. Sputtering, the young Sangheili scowled and shoved the water back; however, he lacked the natural grace of his sister and only succeeded in sending up a light spray. His twin laughed, and despite himself Oriné smiled._

_The public baths of Lomak were spacious, meant to accommodate far more people than were currently present. Only a few families were there, giving the two children more than enough room to splash around. Nearby, their mother looked annoyed._

"_Behave yourselves," she cautioned them._

_Their father surfaced nearby, shaking his head from side to side and sending water droplets everywhere. "Do as your mother says," he said, running a hand over his neck, "or we will be forced to drown you and make another set. Don't think we can't; we can make them just like you."_

"_Paolu, you wouldn't!" Fulsa cried, genuinely horrified. Beside her, though, Oriné puffed up his chest._

"_I can hold my breath for eight minutes!" he said. "You would not be able to hold me under long enough to drown me!"_

_Smiling, the elder Sangheili lunged through the water and caught the young crècheling up in his arms, making him giggle. "Can't I?" Orita asked in a faux-menacing voice. Oriné squirmed and kicked, trying to get free. His little hoof caught his father in the side; Orita let out a gasp of pain and loosened his grip, allowing the young Sangheili the opportunity to kick off his stomach and plow into the water._

"_Oriné!" his mother yelled, "How could you do that!" She hurried over to her mate who was doubled over, clutching his side. _

_The little crècheling went pale. He had forgotten about his father's wound. As he tried to stammer out an apology, Orita gave a rasping chuckle and straightened himself up as best he could. "He did fine," he assured his mate. "He struck where he knew his opponent was weak, but did not push such an unfair advantage more than he had to. Oriné will be a capable warrior one day."_

"_What about me?" Fulsa hurried over to the source of the excitement._

"_Not a warrior, little one," Alsa said, "but a devoted priestess of the faith."_

"_Could I be a... a priestess too, Maulo?" Oriné struggled with the long word, but saw approval in his mother's eyes as he managed it._

_His father, however, burst out laughing. "If that is what you truly wish," he chuckled. "But if that's true, we must immediately cease your physical training and enroll you in full-time seminary with your sister."_

_Now it was Oriné's turn to look horrified. All females were enrolled in full seminary, while the males only went in the morning for standard lessons; they were gone for physical training before noon. Even during that short time, Oriné couldn't tolerate it and was often restless enough to cause his instructors intense grief. He found out that it could get him sent home early._

_His father waded over and gave him a pat on the head, then touched foreheads with him. "Reconsidering your options?"_

"_Yes."_

_He chuckled and picked him up again, though this time not as forcefully. His mother watched them, arms crossed, then brandished two pumice stones. "Come now," she said. "Let's get you two washed. We want you to be clean and ready for your brother's return from Jisako."_

"_Nothing can keep our family apart," Orita murmured as he scrubbed his son's head. "Not desert planets, not light years apart, nothing. Remember that, little one."_

* * *

Oriné started awake, immediately sitting up. "I remember!" he said, then realized where he was. Glancing around, he heard a persistent chiming noise. _The door_. "Enter," he called out.

The deckhand came in. "We have just exited Slipspace and are awaiting clearance from the sentry fleet. We should be on High Charity within the hour."

Briefly the groggy Elite Minor wondered why this Sangheili was being so kind to him, but it occurred to him that the crew might not know the reason for his urgent journey. They might think him to be more important than he actually was.

"Thank you," he mumbled. The deckhand nodded and departed, leaving Oriné alone once more. He glanced around the room; it far less inviting than when he first came aboard, and much colder.

He looked sullenly at his discarded armor.

"I remember."

* * *

After they docked, Oriné made to depart immediately, but the deckhand stopped him and handed him a Lumidex. "These are the coordinates you must report to," he said, highlighting the appropriate section of the screen. "I recommend making haste; these orders have the seal of the 

Hierarchs on them." The Elite Minor took note of that, seeing the intricate rune that signified the High Prophets' interest in the matter.

There was no special transportation waiting for him this time, so all he could do was carry his trunk up the main gravity lift from the shipyards and struggle to find a place on a public gravity barge. The primary transit system for High Charity was packed, room only for standing. All Oriné could do was strap his trunk onto the cargo area on the side and hope that the magnets didn't fail in mid-flight.

His destination was a dormitory located midway down the Lower Districts. Upon his arrival, he was directed by a Kig-Yar attendant to a suite on the third floor; a gravity elevator in the center of the building provided the lift he needed, sticking close to the outer ring of energy so that he did not move too quickly.

Once he found the door he was looking for, he opened it and saw his parents kneeling before a low table, talking over currently-empty bowls. He stepped inside and the door shut behind him.

Alsa looked up. "Oh, Oriné!" She got to her feet and crossed to him quickly, wrapping her arms around his armored frame. Oriné released his hold on the trunk and returned the embrace, feeling the slight tremors running through her shoulders; she was crying. When she released him, his father did the same, and afterwards he touched foreheads with them both.

"How was your journey?" Orita asked, pulling away.

"More comfortable than I had counted on," the Elite Minor replied.

Alsa nodded. "This apartment was provided by the Council for us, while we stay for the trial." She was very clearly distraught; her skin had lost its luster and her eyes were dull. It pained Oriné to see his parents in such a state. They looked ages older than they had been last time he saw them.

Orita touched his mate lightly on her arm. "We should go now."

"Go where?" Oriné cocked his head.

"Your sister is on trial," his mother answered. "Right now the Council of Masters is performing their initial interview. They will want us to be present, so that we may be questioned as well." At first, Oriné was appalled before remembering that trial questioning did not involve the same processes that enemy interrogation did. _I have been away from civilization for too long_.

His parents dressed quickly, choosing formal and elegant robes, and led him outside. Oriné, still in his armor, followed them to a waiting area for the next gravity barge, and then took one bound for the Council chambers. It was less packed than the one from the docking spire had been, but still far from comfortable. The Elite Minor kept his eyes busy by watching other aircraft, taking especial notice of a pair of Prophets that hovered by on their thrones.

As they rode, his mother traced some of the deeper gashes in his armor. "By the rings," she muttered, "I know the front is full of danger, but I never imagined those heretic weapons were strong enough to actually cause you harm. Have you been severely hurt?"

"No," he replied, deigning not to inform her of his experience on Pearl or his more recent injury sustained on Sylvan. He had, however, gotten through Coppice with little more than a few scratches.

"If there were no danger," his father said, "there would be no honor in fighting for the Covenant and the Forerunners."

_The Covenant that condemns Fulsa and the Forerunners who have forsaken her? _Oriné wisely did not voice this opinion, especially because he was on public transportation with dozens of ears around him. His family did not need the burden of a second heresy charge among the first with a bit of treason thrown in. Even in private he would not have said this; his parents were devout believers. So was he, but this had thrown his mind into confusion.

They arrived at the location of the Council and entered the complex. A Sangheili in dignitary robes was standing in the antechamber. "You are the 'Fulsam Lineage?"

Orita nodded. "We are."

"The Council is interviewing your daughter in the amphitheater, not the main chamber," the Sangheili explained. "Follow me." They did so, trailing behind him as he led them down a sloping passage to a large door.

"Within is the Council of Masters," he intoned. "Keep your peace and speak when you are spoken to." At his signal the door slid apart and allowed them passage in. A great semi-circular room awaited them. Along the curving wall were three cascading rows of benches raised several meters off the floor where the Sangheili and Prophets who made up the Council of Masters sat, lit from behind by soft lighting; beneath them stood a dozen Honor Guards, standing at attention with their ceremonial pikes.

In the center, visible from all angles, was a pulpit. Upon it stood Fulsa, dressed in her finest Priestess splendor: gentle azure robes, beautifully detailed with jade, combined with the cool silver metal anklets and headdress made her appear a thing of beauty. Though the light from above was meant to be harsh and highlighting, it gave her the appearance of a divine messenger.

But as she turned to give a quick look at their entrance, Oriné could plainly see the sapphire energy band that snaked around her wrists, binding them together and keeping them immobile in front of her. Something snapped. Despite her beauty, the fact that she was a captive burned in his mind and moved his limbs without his permission. Before he realized what he was doing, he was already storming away from the quiet procession of his family and going right up to the pulpit. The councilors muttered excitedly amongst themselves as he stepped up on the raised platform and turned his harsh eyes against them all.

Fulsa was shocked. "Oriné, what are you—"

"Who dares?!" His bellowing voice cut her off and carried all across the room, echoing off the walls. He looked back and forth among them, eyes blazing. His gaze was so intense that even the Honor Guards who had begun to advance towards him paused in their approach. "Who among you would dare condemn my sister, a Priestess of the very Coven that communes with the Gods!"

A general silence fell over the assembly. Just as Oriné was about to launch into a tirade, he was pre-empted: "I did." The voice, high and feminine, rang through the air as easily as his own, but that was not what made his hearts skip. He recognized the voice, but it had been so long since he had last heard it. Since then, it had become a phantom in his dreams, a quiet bell that tolled gently in his mind. Slowly he turned to the corner from which the voice had come.

She walked deliberately down the stairs, placing one slender hoof in front of the other. Her own Priestess vestments, identical to Fulsa's, glittered in the light. Oriné felt his breath leave him, but found air enough in him for one word: "Ekla."

"I heard her speak blasphemies in the very halls of the Great Temple, profaning the Gods with her vile tongue while standing in the shadow of the Holy Dreadnought," said the daughter of Institution's Head Master. She had gotten a bit taller and lither since Oriné had last seen her, dark as it had been in her apartment here in the Holy City. She continued, "Your sister spoke against the Grand Design."

Oriné bristled, but he had been taken off-guard by her appearance. That she was the one to accuse her sister of heresy was too much for him.

Suddenly the Honor Guards were flanking him. "Escort him out," said the presiding Judge. "He will wait outside under guard until such a time as he is called for." Grudgingly, Oriné allowed the red-and-gold armored Sangheili to bring him out of the amphitheater, though his head was reeling.

* * *

He was called back in a couple of hours later, after his entire family had been questioned and interviewed. When he went in, he saw his mother and father standing on the left side of the door and his sister under guard on the right. Again he fumed internally, but not half so hard as when he saw Ekla standing beneath the Council. His escorts led him up to the pulpit; he stepped up and looked at the Council.

"Elite Minor Oriné 'Fulsamee," began the Judge. Oriné did not know him, and at the moment he didn't particularly care. The combined stress of Fulsa's arrest and Ekla's presence was making him feel defiant. He held his mandibles, though, not wishing to be held in contempt. "Your outburst earlier and past history with Head Master 'Eklatee's daughter aside, your record is quite impressive."

"Thank you, my lord," Oriné said, his mandibles feeling tight. His eyes scanned over the assembled councilors and saw a familiar face. Yarna's father was among the politicians overseeing this trial; he wondered if the High Councilor had understood who the condemned was, or if he even remembered Oriné from their brief meeting at the Ceremony of Appellation.

"Your war record, though brief, speaks of your devotion to the Forerunners and to the Covenant," the Judge went on. "I assume you know your basic scriptures?"

"I went to war academy at Institution," replied Oriné. "Memorization of basic scriptures is required for attendance, and in-depth study of the Divinidex for Commencement as a warrior is also necessary."

The Judge's smile was quick and cruel. "I'm aware. Would you care to recite in detail the third passage of the Final Ceremony of the Great Journey?"

For a moment, Oriné hesitated. Was it really that simple? At seminary he had learned it and was forced to commit it to heart. Any Sangheili bound for Jisako knew it by rote. Still, a ranking Councilor had demanded it of him. He cleared his throat:

"_And when the seven rings are lit_

_So will those who lit them be_

_As Gods they will rise and ascend_

_Glorified, and full of Honor to join_

_Those who have gone before and soared."_

Again the Judge gave his unsettling smile. "Spoken with conviction." A few of the Councilors shot unkind stares over Oriné's shoulder; he turned and saw Fulsa with her head bowed. _What is the meaning behind this?_

One of the Councilors nodded his head towards Oriné. "As the respectable Judge has observed, your combat history is short but quite remarkable. You served on Pearl in the S'gor Legion, Divine Unit, correct?"

"That is correct."

"And your entire Unit, sans yourself, was killed?"

Oriné heard a gasp of horror from behind him and knew it was his mother. "That is true. They died in a human ambush, but prior to their fall they all fought honorably. I am aware of that much."

The Councilor tapped a finger against his mandible while another spoke up. "Pearl was a difficult campaign. Many of our noble warriors were lost to cold and sickness, not to mention the cowardly and guerilla tactics of the humans. It was almost a full year of fighting before we were able to destroy that heretic world."

"But we must remember," said yet another, "the warrior 'Fulsamee was only present for a few weeks."

"They were the harshest weeks of the battle, so the reports say," countered an older Sangheili. "It is a testament to his character that he, thrust into such adverse conditions straight from Institution, was able to triumph so."

"Yet he did not come straight from Institution," said one of the earlier speakers, "but from _Devil's Gulag_, a dishonorable posting if I have ever heard of one."

_So this is how it goes_, Oriné realized, watching them talk back and forth, the others nodding and whispering to each other. _Lines of support are being drawn, at least for myself, if not for my family, if not for Fulsa_. He felt a degree more comfortable knowing that he had some friends, though clearly not many. The staunchest allies of either side were the ones talking; the others were either easily swayed or of little consequence.

"Please," scoffed one, "the narrow-minded petty retribution of 'Eklatee should be discounted entirely." Oriné saw Ekla shift her weight, clearly agitated by the casual dismissal of her father's will. It was little consolation, but it gave the Elite Minor some semblance of satisfaction.

"Not entirely. The young one earned a very distinguished marking while there, a very clear indication of his valor and favor in the Gods. They saw a tool that could be of use killing heretics and gave him an opportunity for redemption, which he took."

"That is strong evidence of divine watchfulness of his family," said one of the Prophets, the first of his kind present to say anything here. Though their species was frail by nature, they formed the divine core of the Covenant, having been the ones to talk the Sangheili out of further war with messages of salvation from the long-vanished Forerunners. The Sangheili had not been undeveloped at that time; in fact, they had been space-worthy already, with most of their empire staked before the War of Fortune. Of course, "Prophet" was the Covenant title. Their species' real name, the San 'Shyuum, could not be uttered, as it was considered too holy for any other caste to speak.

There was a prolonged moment of silence as all contemplated the Prophet Councilor's statement. Finally, the Judge made a motion. "Your next campaign was on Coppice, yes?"

"Yes, my lord," said Oriné, bowing his head as he said so.

"Again, difficult fighting."

"I was among a brave and skilled unit."

"Yes," the Judge intoned, dragging out the word. "High Councilor 'Orgalmae, your son is a member of Faithful Unit, is he not?"

'Orgalmae straightened in his seat, situated three chairs from the Judge's right hand. An honorable position. "He is, esteemed Judge," he said, "though I have not heard from him in some time."

Another High Councilor, situated almost exactly opposite 'Orgalmae, gave a deep chuckle. "And your son would _never _consort with the family members of heretics, is this also so?"

Oriné cocked his head in curiosity. A display of internal politics, perhaps? Such outbursts should be better controlled, and obviously the Judge agreed. Just as 'Orgalmae was rising, hand going for his energy sword, the Judge stood and bellowed for silence. "You will be mindful of your places, Councilors!" His voice was stern, eyes darting from one to the other. "High Councilor 'Orgalmae's son is not present, for questioning or otherwise, and neither has Fulsa of Sam been found guilty of heresy. You will, the both of you, stand down. Any further breaches of conduct shall be met with reprimands of your offices." Reluctantly the two settled themselves.

The Judge cleared his throat. "I apologize, warrior, for that interruption. We wish to conclude this interview was quickly as possible." He motioned to the other Councilors. "Continue."

As the discussion of his record went on, Oriné found it unnerving that they were willing to conduct such third-person investigation into his experiences with second-hand reports. _Why do they not simply ask me questions? _Usually when their voices were directed at him, it was for confirmation, a simple yes or no answer required. They moved from the additional hardships of Coppice to the relative ease of his post on Sylvan, all the while debating the significance of the Forerunners in his life.

So it was that, when a Prophet asked him, "Did any of your experiences on these assignments, either on the gulag or the front line, give you any reason to question the Forerunners? Did your faith ever waiver?", he was unprepared for an immediate response. It took him a moment to gather his thoughts.

"The fighting was difficult," conceded Oriné, "and there were many times when, sheltered by the Grand Design as we were, fear gripped our hearts, fear of an imminent end. Comfort as the Great Journey is, our dedication to the Covenant made us reluctant to give our lives that, if lived, could bring so much more honor to the Forerunners."

Murmurs of approval rippled through the assembly, like wildfire through the Sangheili and even trickling in amongst the Prophets. "And of the Gods?" asked the same Prophet. "Were you devoted to them in these times of hardship?"

Oriné took a deep breath. "When patrolling an uncertain forest in the dead of a moonless night with my squadron leader, when huddled in the muddy trenches of a heretic world with a dozen warriors I did not know, when trapped under fire behind a tree and a damaged vehicle with your son, High Excellency 'Orgalmae, we depended _only _on each other. But in all those instances, and all those not mentioned, the only prayers we made went to the Gods in the Divinidex."

There were several moments of silence as his impromptu speech sank into the assembled Councilors. At last, the Judge nodded. "Well said. This brings to conclusion the interview and questioning of all pertinent subjects. Further summons, as necessary, will be made individually. Fulsa of Sam, Priestess of the First Circle, will be held in jail without visitation; the 'Fulsam Lineage may not leave the city, but is otherwise free to journey about as they see fit."

The Judge stood. "The trial will take place in a fortnight."

* * *

The Council of Masters filed out of some unseen exit, but Oriné, having guessed the layout of the building, anticipated where a majority of them would pass through. Deeper into the tower were the individual offices of each Councilor, but Oriné found the one he was looking for before he passed into an explicitly restricted area.

"High Excellency 'Orgalmae!" he called out. The Councilor looked up and saw him; he made some gesture to the other politicians nearby and sent them away.

"Young Oriné 'Fulsamee," the older Sangheili intoned.

"I was not expecting you to be here, my lord," Oriné said, bowing low. "I understood your home and primary office was on Sanghelios."

"I was here on unrelated business," came the rumbling reply. "I was two days away from departing when I got word of your sister's plight. I stayed, and was wounded when your father did not ask me for help. But by then I was already embroiled in the matter and could not have left if I had the desire to."

Oriné was confused. He recalled the brusque, infuriating encounter between his sire and Yarna's during the Ceremony of Appellation. "My lord?"

'Orgalmae sighed. "When I was serving on Doisac, in the final days of the Jiralhanae resistance, my entire Legion was trapped. We had been cut off from our supply lines, my armored units were either annihilated or out of fuel for the fusion cores, and food was scarce. A mentality like that of the Kig-Yar was beginning to appear very appealing." Oriné suppressed a grimace. The Jackals were in the habit of eating the dead, whether theirs or another's made little difference.

"Relief came," continued the Councilor, "when one brazen, stubborn Ship Commander by the name of 'Fulsamee defied Fleet Master 'Vadumee's orders and plunged his ship into the atmosphere. He risked destruction from the anti-orbital cannons the Jiralhanae possessed, or boarding by their crude flyers, yet when he heard our plea for assistance he did not hesitate. He used pulse lasers to fend off the advancing armies while he had Spirits deliver as many supplies to us as possible before he was forced to retreat. I owe him my life, though I am loathing admitting it."

The Elite Minor tried to speak, but could not bring himself to ask why the Councilor, then, had acted so on Sanghelios. Seeing the warrior's difficulty, 'Orgalmae cocked his head. "You wonder why I was so harsh to him after both his son and mine returned, close as brothers, from Jisako?" He stepped closer and lowered his voice. "I do not care for your Lineage. Your name, both given and House, is that of a merchant caste. And while your father behaved valiantly, honorably, he disregarded the orders of a vastly superior officer. If the Fleet Master had contacted me, told me that I had to perish, either by combat or starvation, I would not have blinked. I would have accepted the order. I was already prepared to."

Again, Oriné felt anger boil within him, but duller this time. "Then why did you want my father to ask you for help?"

"Because I do hate owing anybody anything," the Councilor said gruffly, and then turned and began to stalk away. Oriné watched him go for a while.

"Your son is fine," he called out. The silver armored figure halted. "Yarna is healthy and safe. He is on leave on Unifying Faith. I will tell him to send you a communiqué as soon as he is able." For a moment, it looked like the Councilor would come back, or turn around, or do something; but then he continued, veering off into another hallway and leaving Oriné's line of sight.

* * *

Oriné excused himself from the company of his parents, saying he had some matters that needed attending. Orita and Alsa, exhausted already, did not think to question him; instead they took their leave as well and made for their assigned dormitory. The barges were packed at this time, clerks and attendants of the various offices returning to their homes in the Lower Districts, so the bonded pair decided instead to walk. Orita hoped that the scenery would give his mind distraction, but to his increasing distaste he found it only reminded him more of his doomed daughter.

_Would that I could trade places with you_, he lamented in his mind. _No one would miss a Sangheili such as me. I've done more to deserve it than you, sweet child. _But there was nothing he could do.

They walked the avenues in silence for a while until Alsa spoke up. "You did not tell him."

It wasn't a question, but it was an observation Orita had been waiting for. "No, I did not."

His mate sighed. "Don't you think he should know?"

"Yes," he replied, "but not now. Perhaps not for a while."

"Why?"

Orita rolled the thought around in his mind first, testing it for holes. He was satisfied. "Oriné has much to worry about," he said. "Surviving his battles, first of all, this is why I did not have them send word of Fulsa before his leave. Second, he must focus on living his own life, looking for prospective mates and planning for his own family when the time comes. These must be his concerns, not of us, not of home."

Alsa was silent for a while longer. She looked out into the road, appearing very vulnerable. His mate knew it was true, but obviously she wished she could coddle him again. That was why, of course, they had done what they did.

"I didn't know about the Head Master's daughter," she said, cradling her elbow.

"Nor did I," responded Orita. "Perhaps he was ashamed?"

"Perhaps he did not want to be hopeful."

"Perhaps."

Their apartment building was in sight. They walked the rest of the distance in a controlled silence, holding their peace until they were in the common room of their temporary home. As soon as it was shut and sealed, however, Alsa broke down. Orita held her close, letting her tears fall onto his robe.

"Gods, Orita! What will we do?" she sobbed. "Even if Fulsa is found innocent, she will be ruined."

"If that happens," he said in a soft voice, "then we will take her back to Sanghelios. There is no shame in that, and she could still find a loving mate in the fields. Agriculture is a noble and humble thing; our people's history is entwined with it."

She continued to sob. "How could this happen?" she croaked.

"I do not know," Orita said gravely, "but I believe that, by the end, we will."

* * *

This section of the city was still intimately familiar to Oriné. He recalled his week-long wanderings as a Rank Two Junior with sharp accuracy. Things hadn't changed much around here, but from his understanding they rarely did: the holy city was a place of stability. The Council of Concordance was known to give aid to shop owners who were struggling, just so the economy would remain strong, or at least seem that way.

So it was that Oriné found the apartment he had been looking for, and with his armor on few people even bothered giving him a second glance. The honor markings on its surface garnered a respectful distance. He ascended the gravity lift to the proper balcony and swept aside the curtains leading in.

She was not yet home, so he crossed to the rear wall, pressed himself into a shadowy alcove, and turned on his active camouflage. He did not have extensive training with it and had not had much occurrence to make use of it, but he knew the properties well enough to know that it worked almost flawlessly in darker areas. He waited.

Finally, perhaps an hour later, she ascended the gravity lift alone. _Good_, he thought. He did not want this to become too complicated.

Ekla stepped into her apartment and shrugged off the shawl she had been wearing. She was still dressed in her Priestess robes, but she quickly discarded the headdress in a manner hardly befitting a noblewoman such as herself. He noticed that her movements were more forceful that necessary, strangely theatrical, but not because she suspected that he was here.

"Upset?" His voice, deeper than he had thought it was, rumbled across the room. The female Sangheili jumped, turning rapidly towards the sound of his voice. He stepped out of the shadows, decloaking as he went. "I wondered if I would ever see you again."

Ekla sighed, putting a dainty hand to her chest. She was breathing heavily. "Oriné," she said, "you scared me."

He cocked his head and clicked his mandibles. No humor. "What is your design here, Ekla?"

She shook her head and began to walk towards him. "I'm not scheming here, love," she cooed, drawing nearer. "I _have_ missed you so..." She reached a hand out to place against his breastplate, but she never made contact. Oriné grabbed her wrist with lightning speed and pulled it away. The Priestess let out a sharp grunt of pain.

"No diversion," he growled.

Her attitude changed instantly. "Who do you think you are?!" she cried, pulling to get her arm free.

"Who do you think _you_ are?" Oriné gave her a shove and she stumbled back onto the pile of plush cushions on the floor. He had no intent to harm her, but neither was he planning on being particularly gentle. "If you wish to strike at me, do as you wish, but you should _not _have involved my sister!"

A dark look nested in Ekla's face. "Don't flatter yourself," she barked. "This was not some attempt at attacking you or your family. This is a true declaration of your sister's unholy ways."

That made Oriné pause a moment. "Explain."

"I was in the temple when your sister approached me," began Ekla. "I knew of her, but never much cared to develop a kinship. I knew that she loved to study the original scripture, pouring 

over it every night, often staying in the Holy Library until the end of the night cycle. And I knew that she had recently become quite interested in the texts concerning the Great Journey."

"How did you know this?"

"Hearsay," she said, settling herself into a more comfortable posture. "The cleric in charge of the library repeatedly spoke of how she spent much time with those volumes. She even publicly declared her intent to become one of the Chosen Elect." Oriné was unfamiliar with the Coven, but understood that the Chosen Elect were the priestesses and clerics who were supposed to lead the souls of the Covenant when the Great Journey began.

Ekla continued, "She approached me, weeks after she began her studies, and took me aside. She told me horrible, evil things about the Journey, things I could not believe. About darkness and death, of demons and parasites. I could not believe my ears. I felt sullied by her very presence. I fled from her and told High Priestess Nalja of her heresy."

"She came to you in confidence!" Oriné roared. The priestess cowered at his feet. "Likely she had stumbled across something she did not understand and was seeking guidance from her peer!"

She sat straighter, but still she trembled and her voice when she spoke was not as strong as it had been a moment before. "She spoke with certainty and conviction."

The urge to strike her was overwhelming, but Oriné stayed his hand. He was already pushing the boundaries of illegality by having intruded in her home; he would be lucky if she did not report him as it was. If he inflicted harm upon her, however, likely he would be arrested and thrown in jail. Assaulting a holy practitioner of the Coven was a serious offense, even heresy.

_But what is heresy to me?_

He turned to leave, but paused before the doorway. There was something on his mind, something he knew he shouldn't ask, but he had to. He looked back. "What was our time together for you?"

"A fling," she said flippantly. "A brief and foolish affair. Had I known you were so naïve, so easily attached, I would have left you for the Jiralhanae back on Institution. You looked good, but you weren't worth the trouble you caused me, warrior." The words hurt, more than he had anticipated, but now at least he knew the truth.

"May the Gods damn you, then, priestess." With that, he stepped onto the balcony and into the gravity lift, riding it down to street level.


	12. Mark of Shame

Chapter 12: Mark of Shame

There was no comfort to be had for Oriné 'Fulsamee in the markets or bazaars; his appetite for sweets and human trinkets had failed him. Nor could he turn to the temples for guidance, at once fearing and reviling their sacred grounds. He felt forsaken by the very life he had been raised to believe was divine and righteous.

But he could not go back to the suite that had been set aside for his family. For some reason, he couldn't stomach the idea of facing his mother and father. Perhaps because of his outburst or the information about the war that had been revealed, or because when it came down to it he could neither protect his sister nor get his vengeance against the one who had doomed them all. In both instances his heart held him fast. There was nothing he could do to assuage the sorrow in his heart about Fulsa, and despite all his rage he could not bring himself to exact retribution against Ekla.

So he did what he could: search for a tavern in which he could drown himself in brandy and shame.

It took him a while, but he found a large hostelry located several sectors away from Ekla's apartment. Deciding it would do well enough for his purposes, he entered, the laser-carved doors sliding aside and admitting him. Within was a well-lit open area with tables, chairs to accommodate various species, a central ovaloid bar, and various flora installed around the edges. The chosen specimens, native to Sanghelios, were unremarkable themselves but their simple presence provided comfort and nostalgia. Oriné wasn't sure if the latter would mix well with alcohol.

As he stepped in, a massive hand reached out and stopped him from advancing; he followed the arm with his eyes and found that a very large Sangheili had arrested his movement. The stranger's eyes were settled on his sidearm, a plasma pistol magnetically attached to his hip, but as Oriné turned to face him the individual noticed the markings on his armor. For a moment, the unfamiliar eyes flickered to another corner of the establishment, drawing Oriné's attention as they did so. Clustered in one area was a pack of Jiralhanae, drinking and muttering among themselves.

Reluctantly the bouncer withdrew his hand and allowed the Elite Minor passage inside. As he went, however, Oriné nodded reassuringly towards the guard. "I have no desire to cause trouble," he said, "simply to drink." The guard motioned him past.

Maneuvering his way around a group of Kig-Yar, Oriné made it to the bar area. Behind it floated a Huragok, keeping the machines in working order. The creature looked like a series of gas-filled bladders lumped together with several tentacles hanging down. At any moment during repair, the tentacles split into thousands of tiny cilia and could probe into machines; some wondered if perhaps the cilia were even smaller, able to slide into the space between molecules, but few could believe such simple creatures as Covenant Engineers would be capable of something that wondrous.

Wishing for a live bartender, the Elite Minor highlighted the command for a strong whiskey, and moments later a goblet arrived in front of him. For a while he stood sipping the drink and watching the people around him; there were live Unggoy servers, but they only retrieved drink orders from the machine.

As the "evening" wore on, he found himself in the company of a couple other Sangheili. One was a Minor like himself, on leave but from a different ship in the Dn'end Legion. He had just returned from a simple campaign around a gas giant that had involved destroying the planet and then scanning the asteroid belt for human installations.

Oriné's other companion was an older, retired Major. If he was to be believed, he had survived the worst of the war with the Jiralhanae and was the father of a beautiful saitarelé. Then again, he confessed that this particular pub had been his third on this night's tour. Still, his conversation was enjoyable, though occasionally unintelligible.

Together they discussed many things, from women to combat to life. The former Major, Oriné learned, had been born on Sanghelios but due to his "unquenchable heroics" had been awarded a small flat here in the Holy City. His fellow Minor was from an agricultural colony with a long family history of little military value and great expanses of land. As they chatted, despite his increasing intoxication, Oriné was careful not to let slip the reason he was in the city; fortunately his companions were in a similar state, and didn't bother asking why a member of the S'gor Legion was so deep in friendly space.

Somewhere after his third whiskey and fourth ale, Oriné realized that he was having difficulty finding his hooves. The trio sat at a table so the inebriated Minor could follow his legs to their conclusions, but after a moment they realized that they had chosen a table close to the Jiralhanae pack. Though the thought sobered them slightly, it was not long until they were giggling loudly at poorly whispered jests.

Eventually one of the Jiralhanae took offense and stood, sauntering over as menacingly as he could. The three Sangheili stopped laughing (barely) and turned to face the newcomer.

"Your presence is malodorous and irritating, Sangheili filth," the creature growled. Judging by the color of its fur, and its general disposition being one of visible but contained rage, Oriné decided this one was slightly experienced in the art of the fight. He believed his companions had arrived at the same conclusion. "Please remove yourselves."

Still, though part of their brains were undoubtedly telling them to stop, the alcohol had already ravaged their sense of caution. "Yes, well, your presence is _smelly _and _annoying_," the other Minor slurred. The Sangheili all giggled while an even darker look passed over the Jiralhanae's face.

The Major put a finger to his mandibles. "You know," he began, "I won a pelt on Doisac—you know Doisac, don't you?—that is very similar to your own coat. It may belong to your father." 

At this point the Brute bared his tusks, but the older warrior was undeterred. "I was just thinking, I made a drapery of that pelt, and yours would make a nice accompanying rug."

Despite his stupor, Oriné knew that the old man had crossed a line, but instead of striking him the Jiralhanae simply snarled and left. They watched him go, and subsequently collapsed into a fit of hysterics.

* * *

By the time he decided to call it a night, Oriné doubted very much that the night was over, but hardly cared. His sense of time, as well as shame and dignity, had dulled enough that the idea of stumbling barely-aware into his family's provided apartment to the shock of his parents held no hazard to him. Still, he decided, it was best if he dipped his head into a fountain to perhaps dispel the aroma that hovered around him.

In the state that he was, the Elite Minor had no idea how he eventually found himself cutting through alleys and avenues in an attempt to find a serviceable pool, but he was neither surprised by this realization nor particularly dissuaded. The thought that he was completely lost hardly fazed him. He was sure he'd find a helpful map at some point. His sister's trial was still two weeks off; he had plenty of time.

Fulsa's image, particularly that of her held prisoner and standing before the council, sobered Oriné enough that he realized the throughway he had chosen to navigate down was blocked by a darkened figure at the other end. A moment later, he recognized the shaggy outline of a Jiralhanae.

Combat instincts cut through the alcohol-induced fog, though not entirely. As he went for his plasma pistol, he realized too late that someone was behind him and received a solid thump to the back of his skull for his lack of observational skill. He tumbled forwards, landing on his armed hand and pinning his own weapon beneath him.

A large foot placed itself on his armored back; Oriné rolled an eye to find himself staring into the eyes of a familiar-looking Jiralhanae. But for the first time he realized that he didn't recognize this individual from the bar, but from the temple grounds a few years ago. This one had been part of the attack against his person, a scene that had nearly ended in his death had it not been for a chance Honor Guard patrol.

The Brute leaned down so far that Oriné could smell his breath, a stink made up of part ale and part halitosis. The smile that met his eyes was jagged and cruel. "Have you forgotten how to scream, hatchling?"

Oriné did not answer. Instead he rolled, using his left arm to push his side up slightly despite the overpowering pressure on his back, and exposed the tip of his weapon. He angled the shot, quite literally from the hip, and squeezed the trigger twice in quick succession. The first bolt caught the Brute in the throat and sent him flinching back, giving the second the opportunity to enter through the chin and vaporize half the creature's brain. The _important_ half; the Jiralhanae fell 

back, dead. Down the alley the Sangheili heard the companion howl in rage and sorrow at the death of its packmate, but he didn't stick around to see what came next. In a second he was on his feet and sprinting in the other direction.

Fear and alcohol did not mix well, and again Oriné found a gap in his memory. Yet somehow he was in the right area from which he could locate his family's suite, which he did with situationally unfeasible accuracy. When he entered, he did not see his father or mother; a quick and quiet investigation revealed that both had gone to bed. Vowing to do the same, Oriné was somehow able to get both his helmet and a single mandible guard off before his knees buckled and he sank, already unconscious, to the floor.

* * *

There were few repercussions from the murder in the alley. At first, when he had been able to think clearly after his self-devastating binge, Oriné had feared that he crossed a line, dooming himself to quick execution for killing another member of the Covenant in cold blood. Of course he knew it hadn't been so, but as the only survivor was a friend of the deceased he surmised the story would cast him in a very negative light.

And technically he was right. The official story said a bloodthirsty Sangheili had murdered a Jiralhanae who had been out for a late-night stroll with his comrade. As the account said, this murderous being had appeared out of nowhere and shot the Brute dead without provocation; the Prophets caused a stir on the Com Net, condemning the murderer and demanding an investigation.

However, due to the nature of the crime, the investigation was left to the Honor Guard. Tensions had been rising even more sharply since Oriné's last visit to this city, and the Sangheili felt more and more pressured: crime rates between the competing species was climbing, friendly fire incidents becoming more and more common, and many murders of Sangheili had gone unattended by the Prophets. As a result, the Guard Captain who was placed in charge of the investigation sounded so unimpassioned that Oriné believed he could have walked right up to him on a crowded street, loudly declared his guilt, and not received any sort of punishment. In fact, the Captain would likely buy him a drink, either to congratulate him or try and trigger another rampage.

Still, Oriné said nothing. Best not to burden his parents, who were already concerned because of his spree; they asked him to stay close. As an adult he had no obligation to follow their requests, but he did so out of love.

They were not limited to their suite. At their leisure they could leave and walk about the city, though they were forbidden from exiting High Charity itself. Oriné showed them the various places he had found during his first stay, trying to keep his parents in a good mood. His father made an honest attempt to be amused, if not jovial, but his mother had become introverted and quiet. She preferred to spend most of her time brooding inside the apartment.

It was on such a trip that Oriné and his father found their way to the site of the old Heretic museum. Alsa had left earlier, expressing a desire to lie down, and they had let her leave.

The museum was now an empty hall, just a few benches and empty alcoves all that were left of the place that had one stood there. Oriné remembered with clarity his visit and the revelations that had filled him with scorn, but now he felt only sympathy. The owner of this museum had been charged with heresy like Fulsa, and also like his sister Oriné did not know the outcome. He hoped the Sangheili had been found innocent and kept his life, though not his honor or dignity. Perhaps he had become a farmer and found peace in his work.

Upon entering, Oriné caught sight of the lone Kig-Yar caretaker. He remembered the hostile individual from his last visit, but like before the creature caught sight of his armor, grumbled an honorific and managed a bow, and shuffled away. The Elite Minor watched him go before he and his father sat on a bench, allowing the elder Sangheili a chance to rest.

They sat in silence for a few minutes before his father spoke up. "Your entire unit was lost on Coral?"

Oriné was taken off-guard by the timing, but he had suspected the question would come up. "Yes," he replied, "though I was knocked unconscious by the initial barrage. I was rescued by my friend, Hada 'Sobotee."

"And what of him?"

"He was killed by a sniper a short time later. I delivered the news to his family myself."

There was silence for another period. Oriné shifted uncomfortably, suddenly finding his armor very unwieldy.

"Your mother and I did not know about the Head Master's daughter," Orita said finally. Neither of them was making eye contact with the other. "We were very confused when we heard."

"I... had not wanted to tell you."

Orita looked at his son. "Why?"

"It was improper of me, and I was greatly shamed by it," confessed the Elite Minor, unable to meet his father's intent gaze. "For my actions I was banished to gulag duty, never expected to see combat again. I could not bear to tell you or mother for fear of what you would think or say; it was only through pure chance that I was able to earn my way away."

"Is that where you earned that marking?"

Oriné looked down at his armor. The honor marking was carved into his right breastplate, a place of great honor where everyone who faced him could see it. The glyph was a Forerunner symbol meaning "savior," reserved for warriors whose valiance had saved a superior officer and 

countless allies from doom. On his gauntlet there was another marking, a lesser glyph meaning "survivor" that had mixed tones: one the one hand, it signified that he had come out alive from an impossible situation, but on the other it meant that his unit had not. He had received it after he left Pearl, but he did not like to boast or even think about it. It returned too many painful memories to the surface.

He recounted his story, beginning with Ekla and ending after his release from gulag duty. Oriné hesitated to speak of Pearl, but when his father asked he answered all his questions: the conditions, how he felt, what it was like. Orita had never truly been exposed to ground combat, his career instead lying in the naval field. The two theaters rarely overlapped. It was difficult for the younger Sangheili to describe the chaos and uncertainty of battling the enemy forces face to face in a harsh environment.

When he finished, the two sat in a contemplative silence for a while longer. Finally the older Sangheili stood, stretching his back. "I suppose we should return," he said. "There's no other place of interest around here, truly. All the legends of the Arbiters bore me."

Oriné looked up at his father. "Do you feel shame?"

Orita glanced back at him. "What?"

"What I have done, does it make you ashamed?"

At that moment, expecting some sort of somber expression, Oriné was completely taken off-guard when his father chuckled. "I was never selected for vestar duty," he said, "but while at Institution I became madly attracted to my friend's charge. For the week she was there, we would sneak into the temple gardens and spend time together."

He looked at the bare walls, mind in another time. He continued, "When it was time for her to leave I snuck aboard her ship and stowed away, hoping to continue our illicit maneuvers. Of course, I was discovered and our acts brought into the open. The Major was _furious_ with me and disciplined me with great force, and she was dismissed from the Coven for her part in it."

As Orita trailed off, Oriné realized he was gaping. He brought his mandibles back together. "You truly went through that?"

"Of course I did," his father said with a wide smile. "How do you believe I met your mother?"

* * *

A week had gone by when two unexpected visitors came to the 'Fulsam Lineage's suite. Hearing the chime, Oriné went to the door and bade it open. In the hallway he found himself in the presence of a Councilor and a cleric.

"Excellencies," he said, suddenly aware of his casual lack of dress. He bowed his head and stepped aside. "Please, come in."

As they moved inside, the cleric nodded to him. "You must be young Orna, yes?"

"No." Orita walked into the room wearing a sarong wrapped tightly around his waist. "That is Oriné." Oriné watched as their two visitors touched foreheads with his father, clasping hands and greeting each other very warmly. "I know it has been a while since you last saw him."

"Indeed," rumbled the Councilor, "the last I saw he was but a hatchling with wide eyes and soft skin playing with his sister. I was not expecting a seasoned warrior."

"Nor I," said the cleric. "How fares your mate?"

Orita shook his head. "None too well, I'm afraid. It has hit us all hard, but she suffers the most."

Now thoroughly confused, Oriné edged into his room to dress himself in a robe; though his father seemed homely with these dignitaries, Oriné did not know them. He selected an indigo robe with soft purple lining and secured it with a silver belt. Once dressed, he went back out to find the Councilor had removed his helmet and all three had kneeled around a table. They chatted idly, each with a cup and a story. His father saw his entrance and motioned for him to join them.

"Son, I would like you to meet my long-time friends," he said. He indicated first the Councilor—"This is Hada 'Kobota, an old comrade from the war with the Jiralhanae"—and then to the cleric—"and this is Ako 'Makillra, my childhood companion." The Councilor 'Kobota was taller than average and very muscular; it was clear that he had earned his position through war. His father likely knew him from serving on a ship. On the other hand was 'Makillra, the cleric. He was slightly stout, if the shape of his robe was any indication, but Oriné wondered if his priestly duties allowed any time for observing physical exercise. However, he had a kind look in his face.

"You likely do not remember them," continued Orita, "but they visited you shortly after you hatched. Ako was the one who blessed you and your sister."

The cleric nodded, the motion very fluid as if practiced for ages. "You were among the most beautiful hatchlings I had ever seen," he said, "though malnourished from sharing the same egg. For a while I feared that my blessing had been in vain."

"Now we hear of you and your troubles," interjected Councilor 'Kobota, "how you have been bedding a Head Master's daughter and your sister provoking the wrath of the temples." The silver-armored Sangheili clicked his mandibles and took a sip of whatever it was he held. "You both have inherited your father's penchant for creating a scene."

The three older males laughed at that, and Oriné suddenly had a thought that perhaps his mother had been the Councilor's charge.

The youngest Sangheili shifted his weight slightly. "Forgive my impertinence, Excellencies," he said, "but why is it that you're here?"

The mirth died quickly. A sobering air fell upon the small assembly. Orita spoke first: "I asked them to come because I hoped they could help us sway the Council to understand that Fulsa is no heretic. Hada is a leading member of the Council on Sanghelios and is acquainted with the Judge, and Ako is a respected cleric of the clergy. Their voices may give us enough weight in the coming trial to save your sister."

'Makillra, who had been taking a deep gulp of his drink, set down the cup and nodded. "I would like to speak to Fulsa, if the Hierarchs will permit me, to understand exactly what heresy she is reported to have said." He looked from Orita to Oriné. "Do either of you know what she spoke?"

They shook their heads, Oriné adding, "They asked me to recite the third passage of the Final Ceremony of the Great Journey. I believe it may have been related."

The cleric clicked his mandibles. "A thorny area of the Divinidex. Few dare to attempt interpretation for fear that any new information would be seen as heresy. It may be into this trap she has fallen."

"Is there any way to dismiss this trial if such were the case?" asked Orita.

Slowly the rounded Sangheili shook his head. "No, but it would certainly make it pass quicker. It is a double-edged sword: if her reinterpretation is closer to the Gods' Divinidex than the previous one, she would be promoted to the second circle. However, as it stands, it appears that hers was further, and is therefore heresy." He lifted the cup and nursed whatever liquid it contained. "As I said, thorny."

The 'Fulsam patriarch lowered his head. "I suppose we must hope for a fair and balanced trial."

"You need not hope," 'Kobota interjected, placing his cup down. It was empty. "Judge 'Cafalae is very wise and unbiased. Your daughter's innocence will fast be proven, and though she will not keep her position or her dignity, she will at least have her honor and her life."

Oriné's head perked up. "This is the Judge presiding over the trial?"

The Councilor smiled. "He is _the _Judge of the entire High Council of Masters, yes. The only way he could have ascended to that position is through a record of being fair and impartial. He is not looking to make an example of any who do not deserve it."

Mulling it over, the Elite Minor nodded. As he was not privy, or particularly interested in politics, he wasn't sure what to think. The way the Councilor had said it, however, made it seem favorable.

The conversation likely would have continued along that vein were it not for Alsa's emergence from the bedroom. Rising and greeting her, their two guests made room for her to kneel with them. Immediately the subject changed to lighter things; the pallid tone of her skin and her dull, lusterless eyes made it clear she was still deeply in grief. They spoke instead of their lives and 

happenings, catching up together. At one point the conversation shifted to Oriné's well-being and his adventures, but the young Sangheili did not speak about battle or the trying times on the frontlines for his mother's sake. Nobody seemed to mind.

By the end of the evening, after a light supper and after-meal wine, farewells were exchanged and 'Kobota and 'Makillra took their leave. Oriné felt a comforting sense of belonging that he had lacked ever since leaving his comrades on the _Transcendent Voyager_.

But it was not to last.

* * *

The next day, Oriné sat in the living area of the suite watching a hologram generated by the Com Net receiver that had been allocated to the family. Apart from the regular news broadcasts, a greater amount of media attention was being given to the approaching trial. It was being hyped as a representative affair of a "growing lack of faith among Sangheili youth." Various scenes and images appeared as a speaker, invisible, described the specifics of the trial, including a recording of the Elite Minor's outburst during the interview.

_I had thought that session closed_, he thought as he watched a third-person account of him storming the pulpit. Disparaging though it was to see such an incident broadcast to the public, he took pride in the fact that he had looked strong and virtuous, defending his sister even against the encroaching Honor Guard. There was a scene switch just before Ekla would have entered.

Overall, however, the assumptions and inferences being made by the speaker threatened to bring about a very similar rage. Oriné's Lineage was being examined by people who had never met or heard of them, and yet this "authority" continued to speak as if he knew every little detail. The Elite Minor was glad for the excuse to walk away when he heard the door chime.

When the door slid open he found himself again looking into the helmeted face of Hada 'Kobota, but instantly he knew something was amiss. The first thing he noticed was that, today, there was no cleric with him but instead a full detachment of Honor Guards. All six of the crimson-and-gold armored warriors were arranged in a protective formation and had foregone their ceremonial pikes in favor of plasma rifles, four of them looking back and forth down the hallway while two gave Oriné scrutinizing glares. Instinctively he spread his hands, distancing his arms from his waist to indicate that he wore no weapons on his sarong.

The second thing he saw was a dark and troubled look on 'Kobota's face. "Is your father about?" the Councilor asked, all traces of yesterday's humor gone. "I have something urgent to tell you both."

A moment later, Orita was at the door. The two members of the 'Fulsam Lineage waited expectantly while the Honor Guards sized them up and decided they were no threat. "I have dire news," 'Kobota said at last. "Judge 'Cafalee was assassinated."

Immediately Oriné felt a cold sensation in his stomachs.

"When?" asked his father. From the look on his face, he felt something similar.

"Moments ago," the Councilor said. "I do not know any more at this point, but an emergency session of the Council has been called. I believed you must know now, before the official announcement, as one of the things we will be discussing is the continuation of Fulsa's trial."

Despite the numbness he felt, Oriné was able to nod. "Very well," said Orita. "Thank you. Any word from Ako?"

"He has been granted permission to speak with Fulsa. Is there anything you would like us to pass along?"

"Tell her that we love her," Oriné suddenly blurted, barely in control of his own mandibles, "and that we are doing everything in our power to help her."

'Kobota nodded. "Very good. I'll inform Ako." With that, he was urged to go by the Honor Guards and obliged, moving swiftly through the hall towards the gravity lift. The two Sangheili watched him go, then retreated back into the apartment to settle themselves in front of the Com Net receiver and await the official announcement.

When it came two hours later, Oriné was surprised to see Councilor Rakola 'Orgalmae standing in full regalia. The Councilor raised his head and straightened his shoulders, the cloak he wore over his armor settling comfortably around his neck. "Loyal citizens of the Covenant," he began, "it is my great burden to bear to you all the death of Judge Yvola Das 'Cafalee, killed in his home by an armed assailant."

The young Sangheili pursed his mandibles in thought. That he had three names was a sign of great honor; Das, a single honor meaning "justice," was reserved for Councilors who had shown great fairness during their time in the position.

"He was slain as he slept by a dishonorable coward," continued 'Orgalmae, "killed with a metal blade. He is survived by a widow, two sons, and five grandchildren." So that was it: assassinated, likely by a Jiralhanae who just happened to have a passcode onto the grounds of his estate here in the holy city. And, much like all the other incidents that made tensions rise, the Hierarchs were going to completely overlook it.

As for Fulsa, that meant her certain chance at a fair and honest trial was dead. Feeling numb, Oriné struggled to find hope, and remembered what Councilor 'Kobota had said: one couldn't become a Judge without being fair and honest. Though the replacement would not be the same, he would hopefully be just as good.

Thinking the announcement was finished, the Elite Minor was shocked when 'Orgalmae lowered his head slightly and kept going: "The Hierarchs recognize that in these times tensions run high and deaths have become more common, and in their great wisdom have made a decree. The position of Judge of the High Council of Masters has been removed, and the Hierarchs 

themselves are to take the role until such a time as they believe the political situation to have relaxed.

"That is all. Glory be to the Forerunners."

The hologram blinked out, leaving the two 'Fulsamee elements sitting in silence. Finally mustering the courage required to do so, Oriné stood and began heading for his room.

"My son," his father said behind him, voice quiet. "Everything will be all right."

Oriné stepped into his room and let the door slide closed.

* * *

Two days before the trial began, Oriné and Orita were summoned to the offices of Cleric Ako 'Makillra, located in the temple district in the shadow of the great Dreadnought. They went, Oriné in his armor and his father in a very formal robe, via the gravity pathway meant for rapid transit across the streets of the city; neither wished to deal with the hassle of the hovercraft.

When they arrived they were stopped by an Honor Guard Captain. Oriné recognized him as the one who repeatedly halted his entry during his time as guardian of a vestar. However, if recognizance went both ways he didn't see it.

"What is your business here?" the Captain asked.

"We have been summoned by the Holy Cleric 'Makillra," replied Orita.

The unknown Sangheili eyed them both in cold silence. He was likely sizing them up; though of a low rank, Oriné had a distinguished honor marking and filled out his armor quite well, and Orita's robes had the borders and designs indicative of a former Zealot. Finally, without another word, he stepped aside and allowed them access.

Within the walls of the temple were lavish decorations that Oriné had never imagined to see in a place of supposed humility. Trees neatly trimmed and bathed in private artificial light much like that of the rest of the city lined the major hallways. From above waterfalls cascaded into crystal pools surrounded by benches and full of small fish swimming. Aware of a growing ache in his stomach, the Elite Minor briefly wondered if anyone had ever attempted to eat any of them. He decided he would not like to be the first.

Further in, where larger, multi-tiered dome-rooms were located, vines climbed the walls and fixtures made of violet-tinted glass hung from the ceiling. Framed by the controlled growth were inscriptions, the letters carved in gold and set into silver placards. They shone in the light given off by the fixtures, seeming to be possessed of a divine glow. For a moment, though he had cared little for the Faith curriculum, Oriné wondered if perhaps this was Paradise.

However, catching his attention more so (and being caught in return) were the holy practitioners that strolled through these halls, some in complete silence and singularity while others paced in the company of fellow celebrants, chatting about what Oriné could not guess. In particular he noticed the Priestesses and vestars, clad in their attire fitting their positions. The older and more experienced bowed their heads to the two warriors as they passed while the younger, newer additions waved informally and giggled behind their hands, whispers slipping over the makeshift barriers. The Elite Minor fought to keep his blush down as his father covertly nudged him.

Oriné could have spent all day marveling at the ancient sights all around him, but he and his father were there on business. They were directed to the guest offices by an Honor Guard, but upon arrival were told by an escritoire that 'Makillra, seeming distressed, had gone to the open-air gardens located further up in the temple. Taking a gravity lift, the pair alighted on the proper floor, and again Oriné was caught up in the sights. Through columned, paneless casements he could see the entire city laid out before him, but sloping downwards toward distant walls slightly obscured by fog. He knew the mist was generated by many homes and shops venting unused water and the like, and that it was cycled outside constantly, but it still gave a very serene look to High Charity.

It did not take long to find the cleric; he was the only one present. He stood on a veranda ringed by small kempt shrubs dotted with flowers, with his arms behind his back and looking out towards the Dreadnought and the Pagoda of Fasul beyond it.

As they approached and he turned, Oriné could tell immediately that something was wrong. He was not as intimately familiar with Ako as his father, but the look of unmitigated sorrow on his face was unmistakable.

There was no place to sit, but the cleric made no motion. He said, "I spoke with Fulsa."

Orita waited a beat, hoping for something additional. "And?"

'Makillra sighed. "Even if she showed signs of remorse, what she says is... I'm sorry, old friend, but it is heresy, potent and plain. She says such things about the Great Journey, such blasphemous things of the Forerunners and their ascension to Godhood that I cannot repeat it." He looked up, eyes already mourning. "I amsorry, but even if I were not a cleric, I could not speak in her favor."

Numbness passed over Oriné. So all was lost; he felt weak in the knees, suddenly wishing there were a place to sit. At his side his father hung his head with grief. The two stood on the edge of weeping, and Ako took it as his cue to leave. As he went he touched each of their shoulders, and then stepped past them, robes swishing in his wake.

_All is lost_.

* * *

Outside, Oriné had seen the crowds waiting, gathered together to discover the fate of the heretic, his sister. Inside, the anticipatory atmosphere seemed much the same. The Council chamber was bustling. Unlike the amphitheater, which curved around a semi-spherical area, this was just a hall with a very high and vaulted ceiling. On each side were raised benches, much like the amphitheater, and on each side the different races of the High Council of Masters were assembled. On the right sat the Sangheili Councilors, most wearing a black cape in addition to their armor, likely out of mourning for the fallen Judge. On the left were the Prophets, clad in their crimson vestments; with a shock Oriné realized they displayed nothing to express remembrance.

However his eyes were drawn from the blatant disregard for respect towards the termination point of the hall: where once there was a gravity throne in which the Judge sat, now three hovered over the bare floor. Each held one of the three Hierarchs, the High Prophets of the Covenant. As a triumvirate, they ruled over all the Councils and saw that an orderly and prosperous time was maintained.

The Elite Minor, and indeed all the Covenant, knew their names by heart: in the center sat the Prophet of Truth, the Voice; to his left was the Prophet of Regret, the Hand, and to the right the Prophet of Mercy, the Mind. Oriné remembered that Regret had given the opening speech when he first arrived at Institution, and Mercy had been the Prophet falling asleep at Commencement. Now, though, he looked wide awake and alert.

Standing below the Sangheili Councilors and in front of the row of Honor Guards, Oriné and his parents tried to look dignified, but he knew that their inner turmoil was evident on their faces.

Other than the Honor Guards lining the entire room there were a few others of note: Ekla, as well as a few other Priestesses who were older and had robes of higher Circles; and, more shocking, a small gathering of Jiralhanae. Oriné didn't recognize any of them, and figured that even if he did he wouldn't care. He was immensely surprised that they were even allowed to be present, but judging how close they stood to the Hierarchs they had been invited. All wore what amounted for uniform for them, bandoliers and sparse, harsh-looking armor, but one stood out with white hair.

The Elite Minor found he didn't care.

At the far end came a chime and everyone fell silent. The door parted, revealing four Honor Guards dressed in their bulky, angular armor. Amidst them in stark contrast was Fulsa, standing like a single blade of blue grass amidst several stones. The guards escorted the prisoner, Oriné's sister, up to a small pulpit; she walked up the ramp of her own accord and stood.

Immediately Oriné saw the difference. She had seemed a little frightened during the interview, but now she was... confident. Determined. _Defiant_. The gaze she fixed at the Hierarchs was dripping with cool anger, her hands clenched into tight fists. The snaking blue cuff was gone, leaving her arms free.

Truth's throne floated forward. "Fulsa of the House of Sam, Clan 'Ful," he intoned, "you stand before the Council accused of heresy in the highest degree." He paused and looked at her, seeming to notice her for the first time. "This congress will decide if you are indeed guilty of this heresy. Do you understand?"

"Yes," she said. Her voice sounded different, too. There was no childish intonation, no hint of the crècheling she had once been. She had become an adult.

Floating backwards, Regret and Mercy began the questioning. It was like the interview, as without the Judge the Hierarchs had to make their own decisions regarding this case. But Oriné knew this wasn't a good thing; they were going to make the decision too fast with too little deliberation, not the two weeks of thought and discussion it should have received.

"You have studied the Great Journey in detail, yes?" Regret's voice was smooth and controlled.

"Yes," Fulsa replied, her newfound steel voice ringing through the chamber, "I desired to be one of the Chosen Elect." Even from his place on the side, Oriné saw her sister's eyes flick from one Prophet to the next. "I have no such desire now."

That gave pause to the entire assembly. She showed no sign of remorse. Fear gripped the Elite Minor's stomach; what was she thinking? Even if she truly believed whatever she thought she had found, she should try to ease the Prophets' wrath by at least appearing recalcitrant.

Recovering from the shock, Regret leaned in. "Did the truth of the Lords' Path dazzle your eyes, drive you mad with fervor and worship, make your tongue and mouth spell out words that your mind had no control over?"

Fulsa's eyes narrowed. "No, of course not."

"You were a candidate for the Second Circle," Mercy cut in, "a very rare honor for one your age. Did you not think that perhaps your ill-conceived speculations about the Great Journey would cause you to lose your position?"

"Some things are more important."

Oriné began to feel numb; overwhelmed by the dread that was consuming him. Mercy frowned. "Such as?"

"The truth."

Harsh and angry whispers echoed through the Council chambers, the Councilors speaking in low tones. All the sounds coalesced in the room so that he couldn't pick out individual voices or words. After a moment, Truth waved his hand and the sound quieted back down to silence.

"Is it true," he said, "that you have forsaken the Great Journey?"

Finally, Fulsa looked conflicted. There was a glimmer of doubt in her eyes. "I do not forsake the Great Journey," she said after a moment, "and I do not doubt that the Forerunners were as Gods and Lords. But..." She rolled her neck. "But I have found that the Sacred Rings were not the vehicle of the Great Journey."

Shouts and cries erupted in the Council, but Mercy slammed his fist on the holographic controls for his throne and his voice boomed louder over all the clamoring, bringing the Councilors to order. He turned his eyes, venomous and sharp, towards the young Priestess. "You dare to doubt the scriptures, the Holy Divinidex?"

"There have been misinterpretations before," Fulsa shot back. She had become defiant again. "As no Codex has yet been found, our interpretations of the accounts left by our Masters are circumstantial translations with only speculative context."

"But you speak against the Great Journey," Truth said, hovering forward. "That is one of the most corroborated and accepted truths of the Divinidex."

"There is one section wherein the Great Journey is not affirmed, and if read closely the Sacred Rings are said to be deadly," said Fulsa.

Renewed silence fell over the assembly. A cleric sitting among the Councilors shot to his feet, clearly enraged. "You speak of the Damned Times! To even look upon those records is a heresy in and of itself! Those have been dismissed as the disparaging writings of our Lords when they themselves lost faith, and thus damaging to the Covenant at large!"

"They should not be ignored!"

Roaring once again took the Council, and Oriné looked around. Councilors on both sides were rising to their feet and making condemning gestures towards his sister, whom stood and looked at them all. However, instead of anger or accusation in her eyes there was something else: pity. Whatever she felt, whatever she _found_, it made her feel sorry for all those assembled.

"Silence!" Truth's voice carried over the Council and the spectators, aided by audio inflation. The Councilors quieted, but many did not resume their seats, instead continuing to glare venomously at Fulsa.

"In light of these... _blatant _heresies," said the Hierarch, "we find we truly have no alternative." Truth hovered forward, once again adopting his formal posture as the Voice. Oriné was horrified. There would be _no _deliberation, no investigation; she was to be sentenced now.

"Fulsa of the House of Sam, Clan 'Ful, Priestess of the First Circle of the Sacred Coven, you are hereby found guilty of vile heresy. You are to be executed following torture." Truth raised his eyes up to the Council at large. "The 'Fulsam Lineage is now found to be in disgrace: any further offspring made without first regaining the lost honor, aside from the four existing now, will be destroyed as heretics. The Hierarchs have spoken."

Cheers of affirmation arose from the Council and filled Oriné's ears, drowning out even his mother's sobs, as he looked at Fulsa. She hung her head, graceful neck seeming to bend under a colossal weight. Oriné was so overwhelmed that he did not notice the Prophets' mistake: there were only three children of the 'Fulsam Lineage, not four.

But soon there would be only two.

Two of the Brutes moved forward and seized Fulsa's arms, dragging her down from the pulpit and towards the door. Oriné reacted instinctually, rushing forward to try and help her. Two Honor Guards lowered their pikes onto his shoulders, pain buzzing through them as they delivered none-too-gentle shocks into his body; but compared to the pain of a bullet entering his flesh, they were nothing. He pushed forward, and behind him he heard the footsteps as the Guards gave chase.

He reached Fulsa, grabbing one of the arms that held her and tried to pry it away, but it was like steel wrapped around a precious item. It would not budge. Two firm hands gripped him from behind, but he reached out to his sister. She reached back and seized his hand.

In that moment, Oriné was back on Sanghelios, a child once more. They rolled together in the fields, laughed and played soldier, dueling with sticks and rocks. He was always careful not to hurt her or let her come to harm; there was a connection between them. According to ancient Sangheili beliefs, twins were linked. One's fate would be the same as the other. In old times they would be celebrated together, tried together, killed together.

Now Oriné faced losing her. He wished that he would be killed with her, but he knew that even this outburst would not be met with lethal force. Her torture would be prolonged and physical, but he would have to live the rest of his life without her. A slow death.

The grip on his shoulders became too strong and he was pulled back, his hand slipping out of hers. There was concern in her eyes, for him, he knew. But there was no fear. Trying to struggle forward again, he felt the sharp impact of a spear in his back, the sensation ringing even through his armor. Still he tried, and he felt another blow push the air out of his lungs. As his limbs grew limp and heavy of their own accord, Oriné drew in a breath.

"I love you!"

He shouted to her shrinking form, growing smaller as the Jiralhanae, accompanied by their albino leader, walked through the door. He was roughly hauled back to his mother and father, and the three of them were ushered out the same way, but many steps behind the Brutes ahead.

Once in the artificial light, Oriné could see straight down the path to the platform ahead. It was in clear view of the throngs gathered below, but there would be holographic representations of the imminent proceedings a lot closer for them to watch. In his mind, Oriné knew that he and his family were to be given a very close vantage point.

Fulsa was brought to the edge of the platform, arms raised and gravity cuffs holding her wrists level with her head. The rest of the 'Fulsam Lineage was brought close, off to the right but where they would be given a perfect view.

The white-haired Jiralhanae stepped up and looked out over the crowds. "This former priestess has betrayed the Covenant!" he shouted, voice amplified by unseen devices. Below the crowds roiled, their shouts reaching even the ears at the top of the tower.

Two points in the air around Fulsa's arrested form began to glow; suddenly they lashed out, sending waves of energy cascading down her arms. At this she cried out, and Oriné realized they were burning her. He lurched forward but was stopped by an Honor Guard.

"Hold," he said quietly. "There is nothing you can do now."

Oriné watched with desperate helplessness as Fulsa thrashed and writhed, her head jerking from side to side, mandibles clenched as a pained groan slipped out. The bracers on her wrist were heating drastically, turning a dull red and sizzling against her flesh. Her robes, once beautiful azure, began to darken and curl. The Elite Minor could barely stand the sight. It felt as if his own skin was burning.

The Jiralhanae was pacing back and forth, eyes on Fulsa as she was tortured. He continued to speak, "She has disgraced the Great Journey, calling it a futile effort! Thus she will not be part of its greatness!" More jeers erupted from the crowd; holographic representations of the suffering being inflicted would be playing, allowing those fortunate enough to be out of eyesight the opportunity to watch. "Watch as this heretic burns for her lies!"

After a few additional minutes of this torture, the albino Brute made a motion and two Jiralhanae stepped forward. They seized her vestments and proceeded to tear them off, finding some unexpected resistance as the edges of her bracers and necklaces had fused to her skin. The floor grew unstable under Oriné's hooves as they peeled them off and Fulsa whimpered, her nerves not yet burned into inertness.

For a moment, Oriné thought that perhaps it was over. But as a long object floated up a nearby gravity lift, he realized the worst was yet to come. The end glowed dangerously, a raised symbol visible among the hot metal. Picking it up, the torturer approached Fulsa, stopping directly in front of her.

"Your heresy," the Jiralhanae hissed, "shall never be forgiven."

He plunged the brand into Fulsa's chest.

The scream was long and loud, shaking all within earshot to their very soul. Though Oriné fainted when the smell of his own sister's burning flesh hit his nostrils, that scream would structure his nightmares for years to come.


	13. Three Trials

Chapter 13: Three Trials

When Oriné 'Fulsamee awoke, he knew Fulsa was already dead.

He knew it by the way his hearts felt at once heavy and light, weighed down by sorrow but deprived of some crucial part. Every breath was a labor, a reluctant motion made against a world in which he would rather be dead, a phantom with his sister. Even as he opened his eyes and found himself lying in a medical bed, his parents sitting somberly nearby, the fact that the elegance he had secretly admired in the Covenant architecture was gone indicated his twin had left the mortal coil and her soul had been cast into Hell.

Rolling his eye, Oriné recognized the inside of a healing room when he saw it, a private one; likewise he took notice of his two parents, once vibrant with life and love, now looking like two faded reeds about to be plucked from the soil by the wind. He remembered that look; Hada 'Sobotee's parents had that same look after Oriné's visit.

He sat up, the motion catching his parents' eyes. They rose swiftly and came to him, his mother clasping his hand and his father standing somberly over him. They were all weeping silently.

_Where do we go from here?_ Oriné tried to find an answer within himself, but he couldn't.

As they mourned together, the door chimed and slid open. All three looked up to see a grim Sangheili messenger, clad in cobalt armor, standing in the doorframe. "The Hierarchs request your presence," he said. "If you will dress and follow me."

It took Oriné only a few moments to don his own armor, and once that was completed the three members of the 'Fulsam Lineage were led from the healing room. From the smooth and well-kept walls Oriné knew he was still on High Charity, which wasn't that much of a surprise; moving him would not have been necessary. But why did the Hierarchs wish to speak with his family? Didn't their shame run deep enough?

Wasn't his sister's life enough to sate them?

The Elite Minor shook his head in an attempt to rid himself of the bitter thoughts boiling up within him. His sister had been executed for her heresy, for _his_ heresy. Perhaps if he had not held doubts before, Fulsa would not have wavered either. Had the Gods sensed his misgivings and, through this action, punished him for it? The shame threatened to tear him apart all over again.

Suddenly he realized that, as he was pondering the deeper meaning of recent events, they had proceeded to the primary gravity lift in the Council Chambers that led to the Sanctum of the Hierarchs. All together the group of four ascended, passing through intricate designs displayed on curved screens along the inside of the shaft. Oriné watched as lattices of multi-colored lights flashed past his eyes, and he was briefly mesmerized into amnesia. By the time they stopped, however, the effect had worn off.

The antechamber was composed of six hovering pillars bordering a lit walkway leading up to a grandiose door. Honor Guards were visible everywhere, lining the walk and the walls and even standing at the ready behind them along the gravity lift. Though they looked passive enough, Oriné knew both from experience and hearsay that in an instant they could spring into action. The Honor Guard was heralded as a largely ceremonial unit, but many of the most skilled and prudent warriors were part of its ranks.

Following the lead of the guide, the three walked along the path in silence, coming up to the door in due time. It gave a chime, much louder and tonal than the standard admittance sound, and split apart to slide into the walls and ceiling. Inside waited the three Hierarchs, clustered around a central pillar of light, heads bowed, lips moving in silent prayer. For a moment Oriné was afraid to enter, lest his presence disturb their sacred meditations. But the insistence of their guide drew him and his family into the room, the door sliding closed behind. The 'Fulsam Lineage were bade to draw near the Prophets, which they did so, dropping to their knees at an appropriate distance. Close as they were, the Elite Minor could hear hushed whispers; they weren't calling upon the Gods, they were speaking to one another.

After a moment's pause they turned their attention to Oriné and his family.

"I thank you for coming," the High Prophet of Truth intoned. He spared a moment to look at their guide. "You may take your leave."

Bowing low, the other Elite Minor made his exit.

The Prophet's attention returned to the remaining Sangheili, specifically Oriné's father. "We understand your sorrow at the loss of a child, but heresy in any form may not be allowed to propagate. Your daughter's words were offenses most vile and could not be permitted to taint others."

"We understand well, Excellency," Orita replied, though his eyes never left the floor. Oriné could almost taste the venom in his voice, and it was clear that the Hierarchs had caught the edge of his words as well.

"Quite." Truth allowed his gravity throne to sway him a little to the side. "Do you know why you are here?"

"You give us the chance to regain our honor," the elder 'Fulsamee said at length.

In his chair, Mercy nodded. "The Three Trials."

Oriné didn't dare glance up, but he felt his own ignorance weigh in his mind. He hadn't ever heard of these trials, but it was apparent that they were a method with which a Lineage could regain its honor. He didn't hold much hope, however.

His father seemed to share his sentiment. "With respect, Highest Excellencies, my bones are too old to undergo these trials. I may still have the heart of a warrior, but my body fails me a little more every day."

The Hierarchs hovered in silence broken only by the tapping of Regret's impatient fingers on the arm of his throne. Truth pulled at his jowls in contemplation. Mercy looked to be on the verge of sleep. Clearing his throat, Orita continued, "But perhaps my oldest son, Orna, would be able to return from duty to complete this test."

"No," Mercy replied immediately, seeming to startle himself out of his stupor. "Your son is currently engaged in operations vital to this Covenant's crusade against the human vermin. He cannot be recalled at this crucial juncture."

A beat passed. "Indeed," answered Truth; if the tone of his voice was any indicator, he had been mildly annoyed by this statement. Why? Oriné wondered if maybe he and his family were suddenly witness to a strain between the Hierarchs, but that was impossible. They remained united through faith in the Forerunners. Nothing of this life could possibly be worth diverting attention inward, away from the Great Journey.

He was so involved with this thought that he hardly felt when all the eyes in the room fell upon him. Glancing up, he saw the Hierarchs watching him intensely and his parents casting him sidelong glances from their own humble positions. Oriné resisted the urge to click his mandibles in the presence of such holy figures.

"I know nothing of these trials," he said, "but if it will restore honor to my Lineage, I will undertake them immediately and with all my strength."

"Well said, young warrior," said Truth. "Should you pass the Three Trials, your Lineage will be absolved of all its shortcomings and allowed to once more bask in the warm conviction of the Holy Covenant."

Mercy floated forward. "The trials shall begin tomorrow. Take the rest of the day to collect yourself, as tomorrow your life shall be laid at the feet of the Gods in order to judge your worthiness."

_This is nothing new to me_, thought Oriné in reply, but said nothing. He and his parents were dismissed and ushered from the Sanctum, and indeed from the entire tower, with haste.

* * *

Oriné should have been sleeping. But how could he? After they returned to the suite he had pressed his father for information on these Three Trials.

"The harshest test of recalcitrance and redemption," the older Sangheili had said. Once he had an edge to his voice, a hidden desire of his to impart his wisdom and the wisdom of the world on others, but with his daughter's death it had fled him. Now he was only an old man. "In some ways you will have the advantage: the structure of the trials closely follows that of a war college curriculum. Your more recent experiences at Institution should prepare you well.

"You must be cautious, however. This will not be like the Proofs. Instead your life itself will be tested, and failure means death." After that, his father and mother had retired for the night, and Oriné had hoped to do the same.

Rest was not forthcoming.

Instead he stared out through the window into the harsh evening light of High Charity. The crowds were dwindling but were far from distinguished; from his vantage point he could hear the distant bustle of a nearby bazaar, but it was fading. Even with the onset of night, nothing was getting darker.

He inspected his hand. Once it had been soft with thin fingers, a child's hand, but now it was harsher. Stronger. Muscle collected around the joints, rough skin swallowed chords of fiber running from the back of his hand all the way down his arm.

Motion caught his eye and drew it up. In the street a cloaked figure was passing. Her form was well concealed, but Oriné recognized that graceful neck anywhere and at any angle. His once-gentle hand curled itself into a vicious fist. He willed her to walk on.

She didn't. She stopped and turned her eyes to scan the building.

_She cannot see me, _he told himself. _She cannot find me_.

Her eyes came to rest on the window he leaned against. Instinctively he moved back and then cursed himself; she had surely seen the motion. Now he was zeroed, she continued to stare, waiting for some response. Scowling he moved away from the window to lie on the bed, but his legs betrayed him and carried him to the door. In a few moments he was outside, standing beneath the eaves of the apartment building. It wasn't cold at all, nor was there any wind: the advantages of a perfectly maintained artificial atmosphere.

From her position across the street, Ekla stared back.

Oriné held his ground, standing off against the urge to cross over to her. It was a battle of wills, which he eventually won. She cracked and came to him, taking long strides with recognizably slender legs.

"You have done enough damage," Oriné hissed once she was close. "Why do you feel like you must continue to torment me?"

As she drew nearer Oriné had seen an odd expression on her face. Now it was level with his neck, and he realized it resembled what he had imagined remorse would look like on her face, had she ever shown any. Her eyes were wide, pinched at the edges, and very tired. In fact, upon examining the conservative profile offered by the cloak, her shoulders had sagged from their once proud bearing.

"You are the one who torments me," she said quietly. "You and your sister."

Oriné cocked his head but did not let his expression of rage waver.

"I cannot shake her from my mind!" Ekla exploded. Her emotion washed over the Elite Minor in a wave, but he stood firm. "She continues to run up to me, urging me aside with those deftly spoken heresies, but whenever I turn away from her I see her tortured form being burned, branded, draw and quartered in the square..."

With great fortitude, Oriné squeezed his eyes shut and fought to keep that mental image from his conscious mind. It was true that he had fainted before he saw the full extent of Fulsa's punishment, and he had been glad of that. He knew it would come to him in nightmares, but the last thing he could stand was facing such a grotesque image waking as well as sleeping.

Ekla continued on. "Amidst it all, though, is a horrific doubt. I wonder if there was not a knell of truth to her predictions. What if she was right and we have just extinguished some insight that would otherwise have been valuable?"

"Enough!" Oriné roared. His voice reverberated down the now-empty street, but he didn't care. "You continue to tease and torment me! Would that these doubts have come soon enough to save my sister, but now I think they come at an hour too late!" He leaned in, lowering his voice to a dangerous rumble. He let his anger consume him, felt the hate and rage course through his veins, pumping his hearts and powering his limbs. Though pain was its intent, the Elite Minor was intelligent enough to know that physical damage could heal with time.

There was another kind of injury that could last the length of a life.

"No matter what you think of faith or of supposed heresies, know this: _you _killed her. You betrayed her confidence; you committed her to this fate." He backed off, but did not raise his voice. "Now be buried under your burdens and trouble me no more."

He turned and walked back inside. Behind him he thought he heard sobbing, but when he ascended the gravity lift and returned to his room she was no longer in the streets. A moment passed while he made sure she hadn't followed him, and then he fell back into the bed.

And rest was still not forthcoming.

* * *

In his dreams, he was in that strange place again. Featureless Sangheili stood around him in the circular arena, muttering their nonsense. This time, however, Oriné ignored them all and proceeded straight to the golden shape. As before it looked up at him and spoke in a detached, ethereal voice:

"_Oriné? Is that you?"_

Who are you, said Oriné, but without words. Was this Fulsa? Was this place Paradise, the limbo before the Great Journey? But she wouldn't be here; for her heresy, she would be in the Hells, freezing and burning and drowning and starving for all eternity. The only way this place felt cold was its distance, its vagueness.

As before, Oriné could only reach out his hand and take the outstretched arm of the one before him. Grasping the hand, Oriné felt a bond, but it was not one shared between siblings. It was one shared between brothers-in-arms, comrades of the battlefield. He remembered the sensation from when he pulled his fellow warriors out of the mud of Coppice, when he embraced the arms of Yarna and Rtas and Rabu. It was a familiar feeling. It was a comforting feeling.

And as he pulled his unknown comrade up, he felt the two of them ascending, embracing each other. Light enveloped them, vaporizing the arena around them. Suddenly his golden comrade let go.

"_I see now_," he spoke, voice echoing infinitely. _"My role is done, my friend. But your part has not yet been played out."_

Oriné tried to ask, but his mandibles, if they were his, did not respond. Instead he heard another voice, one he had known from his very first breath:

"_I will watch over your friend, dear brother_," she said. _"You remain unfulfilled, and you must save your Brothers from my fate._" The light faded.

When he awoke, Oriné found his eyes filled with tears. Even as the memory of the dream faded into the false night of High Charity, no amount of nictitating could clear them away.

* * *

"The trials alone will not be enough to save your Lineage's honor," the Lesser Prophet said, standing in the doorway of the apartment. "I am sorry to deliver this news so early, but upon reflection it has been decided more must be offered for the Gods to forgive such dire sins as your family suffers."

Orita suppressed the urge to slam his fist against the wall. His mate and son were both still sleeping, having missed the quiet and insistent chiming of a visitor. However, this news was hardly welcome.

He took a deep breath. "And what more do the Hierarchs demand of my family?"

"You will be returned to active service," said the Prophet. He was a small and spindly thing, grey robes flowing over what Orita knew was a slight body with poor bone and muscle density. The Prophets, since their homeworld was allegedly destroyed, had spent many eons in space as a nomadic tribe. It was how they had stumbled across the then-independent Sangheilian Empire so long ago, and their divergent beliefs of Forerunner artifacts had triggered the War of Fortune. Such time in weightless vacuum had not been forgiving to their physiology. Most required gravimetric aids, such as belts or thrones, to move about.

But that was ancient history of a hundred light years away. Here, today, he was being recalled to duty. "You understand I am old, correct? I can no longer bear the burdens of a youthful warrior, can no longer trek across a battlefield alive with fire..."

"Your age has been taken into account, as well as your experience," the Lesser Prophet assured him. "The Hierarchs, in their divine wisdom, understand that to throw away your years of sacrifice would be an empty and futile gesture. They are willing to restore your old post and promote you to Ship Master after a brief time, during which you must appropriately show your duty to the Covenant."

Orita considered this. There were older Sangheili in the Navy than he, though not by much; most of his peers from his previous wars had moved on to political or religious arenas by now, or had simply retired to take care of their families. The old 'Fulsamee had become one of the latter, not thirsting for further societal or political advancement. He had accepted a modest but fair flat in the capital even though his dream had been a homestead by one of the many seas of Sanghelios, with a small white beach flanked on either side by dense forest, and an open plain in which his children could play and he could watch, vigilant and subdued.

Now he seemed to be pulled even further from that dream.

"Very well," he sighed. He conceded fate's victory here. As the patriarch of the family he would have no peace, but even if it were to kill him, he would earn peace for his sons, so that they may live out his dream. "When am I to be deployed?"

"At the end of your son's Trials," the Lesser Prophet; the two bowed, said meaningless partings, and Orita watched the weak creature hobble down the hallway towards his waiting escort. Once the Prophet was safely gone from sight, the old Sangheili withdrew from the hallway and returned to his room. He slipped into bed next to his mate; she did not stir.

All the fatigue of age crushed him, but he had been deprived of the desire to sleep. Instead he just watched the steady rise and fall of Alsa's body, listened to the soft hum of her breathing. In her dreams, maybe, there was a happier place.

He closed his eyes and tried to think of what it might be.

* * *

"I am to do _what?_"

Standing at the high edge of the garden below him, Oriné could see that it was more like an arboretum. It was thick with foliage, so much so that the Elite Minor couldn't see through to the floor below the canopy. Small birds would shoot up through the leaves, allowing the sun to shine on their silvery wings, and then plummet back down. If legend was to be believed, they were native to the Prophets' home world. He certainly hadn't seen them on any world he had visited.

Beside him hovered a Lesser Prophet. For a while Oriné had thought that perhaps these trials were important enough to warrant the Hierarchs' undivided attention. Apparently he had been wrong, and instead a Councilor was to see him off.

"Within this forest," repeated the Councilor, "is a Jiralhanae convict. He has been promised his freedom if he should evade or kill you before you can capture him. In order to pass this Trial of Knowledge, you must capture him alive and bring him to the Honor Guards located at the far end, whereupon you will be sent immediately to your next labor."

Oriné tried to pierce the obstructing flora with his gaze, but it failed. "I must capture him, but he may kill me?"

"Yes." When the Prophet Councilor nodded, his entire body bobbed, supported only by the anti-gravity belt around his waist. "Such are the conditions of the trial."

The Elite Minor ran a final check on his armor. He was permitted full shields and his motion tracker, good to up to fifteen meters, but he doubted its effectiveness if the forest was as bristling with life as it seemed. But he was not allowed any weapons; his energy sword was attached to his hip, but he had been forbidden to use it. That having been said, he wondered why he should carry it, but when he asked the Prophet had remained silent.

_This is ludicrous_, he thought, but it wasn't just for himself that he did this. It was for his father and mother, so they may at least live with one less burden. It was for Orna, lost on some distant front and silent for so long. It was for Fulsa, to perhaps earn back some of her Honor. It was for him.

"Very well," Oriné said. "When shall I begin?"

"Immediately."

Nodding, Oriné took two steps forward and slid down the steep edge of the ravine. The normal path down on this side had been blocked off; by entering the chosen arena, there would be no going back. To succeed or die were his options.

As he dropped below the canopy he felt a solid impact on his face. Instinctively his training took over and the war-oriented part of his brain analyzed the situation: an enemy was impossible to fight on this steep of an incline, so he lashed out to grab whatever it was and fell backwards, sliding the rest of the way on his back.

When he came to a rest his eyes finally focused and he realized he was holding a vine. His face burned. He had been caught off-guard by a plant? Glancing up, he saw that the Prophet was gone; at least he didn't have to suffer that embarrassment.

Tugging at it, he found it to be quite elastic, and a moment later it revealed itself to be quite musky. Oriné tried not to gag on the overpowering stench. With a mighty pull it snapped from its tree of origin, and Oriné was left with a length of creeping plant; he wrapped it around his body like a bandolier, securing it with a loose knot close to his waist so it would be easily accessible.

He took a moment to take in his surroundings. At a glance, his anticipation about the state of his motion tracker seemed to be correct: it was obscured by the comings and goings of all the fauna just large enough to trigger it. Of course it made sense: clearly it could not be so easy for him if it were to be any sort of Trial. Still, if his motion tracker was designed to be useless, why taunt him with it?

Slowly he began wading through the waist-deep brush around the edge towards the thicker and larger copses in the middle. Small animals and insects chirped and buzzed around him, making his motion tracker go mad. It seemed like his eyes and hands were the only tools he could rely on.

Once amidst the taller scrub Oriné ducked down low. He watched and listened to the activity around him, engaging his active camouflage and settling into an observational position. Around him life disturbed by his passage slowly and cautiously returned to its former activities.

The more time passed, the more life around him returned to its normal state. Eventually the creatures strayed closer and closer, drawing nearer and nearer but somehow knowing where he was, despite the light-bending abilities of his camouflage. Perhaps it was an instinct of the baser animals, he wondered, that they were acutely aware of all the changes in their surroundings, changes that higher, more evolved minds would pass over as routine. He hoped that the Jiralhanae, while certainly primal, would pass over his hiding spot as well.

Patience proved ever the virtue, as several minutes later there was an unnatural sound throughout the wooded arena: flora moving suddenly and roughly against the wind, fauna fleeing from an unrecognized force. Oriné moved his head only slightly, mostly rotating on his eyes in order to observe the environment around him.

_There_. A dark and shaggy figure was pushing its way through the forest, moving as cautiously as it could manage; its head was extended in order to smell its prey, doubtlessly the Elite Minor, as it moved. For a moment the Sangheili was afraid, realizing he had forgotten to disguise his scent, but remembered the vine. Its aroma had nearly knocked him over on its own, and it pervaded the canopy. Indeed the Brute passed within a meter of Oriné and did not detect him.

Relief quickly gave way to panic. The Jiralhanae was slowly making its way towards the slope that led out of the forest. If he were to evade, the Trial would be over, and Oriné's family would be dishonored without hope of redemption.

With a cry he catapulted from his spot, running straight at his target. The Jiralhanae turned, snarling its own challenge. For a moment, Oriné chided his opponent for turning away from certain victory, no matter how devoid of valor; if he had simply run for the exit, he would have made it and the Trial would be finished. _And he thinks to engage an invisible opponent in unarmed combat!_ This would be over quickly, despite the Brute's apparent size and strength.

However, the Elite Minor had overlooked one deadly complication. Though blind to his location, the Jiralhanae was not helpless. In a quick motion it drew something from its tattered belt and swung. Oriné was barely able to halt his rushed advance in time, and despite the fact that falling backwards hadn't been part of the plan, it likely saved his life. The detached bayonet the Brute carried would have passed through his neck, shields and flesh be damned, if he hadn't suddenly and accidentally changed altitude.

Lying on the forest floor, his body shape stood out like a sore thumb among the grass and moss, and the Sangheili had to react quickly in order to avoid being skewered by a downward thrust. Up on his feet the Jiralhanae continued to track him, despite his active camouflage. As he dodged swings and kicks, Oriné realized that the vine's scent, which had so well covered his own, was now acting as a targeting device.

Growling, the Elite Minor disengaged his camouflage and activated his shields. He couldn't get rid of the vine; not yet. He had a plan.

Upon his appearance, the Jiralhanae halted its attack and grinned devilishly. "Ah, a Sangheili. I should have known by your slipperiness." It lowered its stance but did not lunge. "Are you simply here to impede my progress, warrior, or is there something in it for you if you bring me back? I figured the terms of my freedom to be a little... suspicious."

Oriné dropped into his own martial stance. "Upon your capture, I am one step closer to regaining my family's honor," he said. The Jiralhanae showed its mouthful of teeth, lips upturned into a cruel smile.

"The Three Trials, then," it rumbled. "You must be of the family of that Priestess who was recently executed. You have undertaken a grave and fatal path."

"So they say." Digging his hoof into the dirt, Oriné lunged, going for the neck of the beast. His own strength could not match that of the Brute, so instead he had to focus on the strategic pressure points where he could cripple the creature with the least energy possible. It would make his fight difficult, which was for certain.

The Brute suffered no such limitation. It allowed the Sangheili to come at him and began swinging its massive fists, one still clutching the blade, putting up a powerful defense. Oriné ducked one blow and let his shields absorb the impact of the bayonet, metal sliding over the field around him. He was physically unharmed, but his shields screamed in protest at him. Another such attack too soon would be stopped only by his armor and the flesh and bone underneath.

He slid under the next barrage and struck upward at the creature's central plexus. His fist hit home, but the blow was softened by layers of muscle. The Jiralhanae grumbled its discomfort and began kicking, catching the Elite in the side of the head and sending him tumbling through the grass. It pressed on, jumping on the incapacitated Sangheili, but Oriné took the impact and rolled, ignoring the shrill alarm in his helmet and the lack of air in his lungs. As he tried to get to his feet, his fingers almost grasped the plasma sword at his hip, but at the last moment he stayed his hand.

_I will win with honor_.

The convict pressed the assault. Oriné modified his strategy, switching almost entirely to defense unless his opponent was overextended, at which point he struck with savage fury of his own. Such lapses in combat ability did not come often; the Brute was clearly highly educated in his martial abilities, likely having at one point also been a soldier.

"You have fought on the battlefield before," Oriné grunted as he sidestepped a fist. The Jiralhanae brought it back to a defense position too quickly for a counterattack, however.

"Yes," it replied. "I was part of the force deployed to Harvest. I was one of the first combatants in this war, unlike your filthy species." The remark was meant to sting, but Oriné did not let his racial pride cloud his judgment.

"So you say. But that was the first deployment of Jiralhanae soldiers on the front line, and following your dismal failures to properly deal with all the humans in the system, the _last _deployment of Jiralhanae soldiers on the front line. After that you were relegated to temple guardians and political muscle." The Brute struck with a blind fury, driven to rage by his comments, and Oriné saw an opening. He struck with extended fingers, plowing them straight into his opponent's windpipe. The creature gagged and staggered back. "Something tells me you were not pleased with the transition." He leaped forward, sensing his chance. Planting one foot firmly in the Brute's face, knocking him onto his back; regaining his balance, Oriné struck again, further dazing the ex-warrior at his feet.

Using his adrenaline to his advantage, the Elite Minor rolled the Jiralhanae over, seized its arms, and quickly bound them using the vine. There was enough left over that, using its stretchiness and the Brute's knees he was able to bind all four limbs together. In addition he dislocated the creature's arms, just for safety's sake.

"Our time will come again," the Jiralhanae growled as Oriné struggled to get it on its feet. "You shall be disgraced, we will prove our greater worth to the Hierarchs, and you will become lowlier than the Grunts." It spat a tooth at him, but the object just bounced off his shields.

"March," he commanded, and began pushing the Jiralhanae towards the distant slope.

Climbing out of the arena, Oriné saw the two Honor Guards to whom he was supposed to report standing on either side of a door. Coercing his prisoner forward, he straightened up and stood before the sentinels, muddy but proud. "Here is my target, apprehended and alive."

"Very well, young one," one of the Honor Guards said. "You have passed the Trial of Knowledge." He keyed a code into the door behind him and it slid open. "You may proceed. The Trial of Faith awaits you."

As he stepped through, Oriné looked behind him. The other Honor Guard drew his plasma sword, and just before the door closed, the Elite Minor was treated to the sight of the Brute being skewered right through the chest.

* * *

No Prophet waited to brief him, but as soon as he stepped into the room, ellipsoid and bland and large, Oriné wished there had been some warning.

"Ekla," he hissed.

The priestess turned calmly. "Hello, warrior," she said, voice perfectly level. "Welcome to the Trial of Faith."

He balled his hands into fists. "So your torment will last?"

She gestured to a plain cushion located in the middle of the floor. "Sit and be prepared."

For a minute Oriné continued to glare, but Ekla remained impassive, standing in her flowing priestess robes. _She is staying calm_, he thought, somewhat surprised and also hurt. The idea that she could keep her cool while he lost his temper irked him. Out of spite he forced his own rage to an internal simmer and knelt on the pillow.

"What is this Trial?" he asked, though not kindly.

"In the Trial of Faith, you shall be left to meditate and commune with the Gods, in order to beg their forgiveness and prove to the Hierarchs that you still hold their favor. A warrior without the Forerunners' eternal blessing is useless to the Covenant." From a small satchel she withdrew incense sticks and a holder. "You must allow the presence of the Divine into your mind and soul. For that, you must have a vision."

Oriné scowled. "It is that simple, then? Have a vision and move on?"

"Nothing of Faith is ever simple," Ekla replied, the first flickers of emotion playing on her face. She placed the holder directly in front of Oriné, inserting the two sticks. "I doubt your Lineage can even remember the names of the Great Ones for all the heresy that has come from your line." Gripping a small tab at the top of each stick she pulled, the phosphorus strip igniting the tip and sending twin tails of smoke flicking into the air.

As the Elite Minor opened his mouth to retort the fumes hit him. He blinked, suddenly feeling the floor tip and dive beneath him. He grabbed for the cushion and the floor, hoping to steady himself against the unforeseen change, but found that neither were there. He could see the room plain as day, as he could his limbs and the pillow on which he knelt, but they were untouchable. He watched as his fingers probed against the metal floor, feeling nothing. _What is happening? _Looking up he searched for Ekla, suspecting it was one of her tricks, but even though he saw her he couldn't _recognize _her.

To him, it felt like a vital component of his brain had been disconnected.

Images flashed by, hazy and vague, but the emotions he felt from each were real. Though he could not figure out what he was seeing, he felt pain and triumph, grief and absolution. He wrestled with his mind, trying to get it under control, but control seemed just beyond his capability. Internally he reeled.

After a time, though, some semblance of calm returned to him. Images still flashed before him, but now he was beginning to understand: they were simply his memories, jumbled and distorted, but still his own.

But what did this have to do with a vision of divinity?

_Nothing_, his rational brain argued. _You are drugged. Disorientation and hallucination accompany your current state. These images are merely stock from your mind. There is no significance, only randomness._

But the scriptures said that, in beginning of their Great Journey, the Forerunners had begun a calculated chain reaction which would end in a Second for the Covenant. What seemed hapless and random was in truth carefully plotted and occurring in a pre-ordained order. Nothing deviated from the Plan.

_What cruel Plan would have scorned Fulsa so, a female of wit, beauty, and intelligence. Surely the Plan requires interpreters, and in its course it may have eliminated one such individual. How would such a Plan justify itself?_

It needs no justification. It is divine. It is the Word and Rule, as spoken through the Voice, as dwelled upon by the Mind, as acted upon by the Hand.

_Three frail creatures that likely ascended to the position by blind luck, not a celestial guiding hand._

Do not all things live and move in a Cycle? Birth, growth, age, death. This wheel, ever turning forward, is what drives the Covenant towards salvation, driven by the Will of the Forerunners.

_The wheel does exist, and it does turn, but the motion has no direction, no destination. It merely goes until it no longer can._

The wheel must have started somehow, and whoever began its journey must have had a destination in mind. The wheel turns and the Cycle spins.

_The Cycle spins, it is infinity._

Infinity linked together forever.

_A wheel of infinity._

A Cycle of the Divine.

_A sacred ring._

"The Cycle," Oriné murmured. Slowly he began to feel again, sensation coming to his limbs, returning to his mind. The images cleared, his thoughts settled, and he felt...

He felt _cramped_.

With a groan he struggled to stand, knees stiff and cracking in protest, muscles feeling like lead. Clearly it had been a long time since he last moved. Nearby, Ekla rose from a sitting position of her own and crossed over to him, staying close but maintaining a minimum distance. She might have feared physical retribution.

Oriné shook his head. "How long have I been in a trance?"

"Three hours," Ekla replied. "Have you had your vision, or shall I prepare more incense?"

The thought of undergoing that again was enough to turn the Elite Minor's stomach. "No, I have seen things," he said, still feeling groggy.

"What did you see?"

He wracked his brain, trying to piece together everything that had happened? What had he _seen_? Nothing. It had been a dialogue among himself. But in that dialogue, he felt, there had been something significant. Even as he heard himself saying the words, "A Cycle that defines all life, that is guided by the Will of the Forerunners, that rolls ever towards the Great Journey," he wondered if that was truly the meaning of his experience.

Was it the future he saw? The past? Or was it something independent of time itself?

In the present, however, he faced a Trial. Focusing his thoughts again, he realized that Ekla was considering him, scrutinizing his face. Finally, after an eternity, she nodded. "Very well, warrior. You have seen the Cycle of Divinity, the momentum of our Holy Covenant. The Gods do indeed show you favor, even after your family's grave misdeeds. You must now move on to the next Trial, the Trial of Combat." She bowed. "Go with the Gods, Oriné 'Fulsamee."

Surprising her, and even himself, he bowed in return before turning for the next door. If she were somebody else, he thought, he would not have passed this trial. His so-called vision was strange and vague, clearly not what had been expected of him. Another priestess would have seen through it and denounced him for it.

But as she had been speaking, he saw in her eyes a spark, a remnant of a passion they had once shared, no matter how much she had tried to keep herself removed from it. Their affair had affected her, too, even if not as much as it had him. Her coating of ice had ablated a little, and he had seen into her soul.

She did not love him. Not truly.

But despite that, he felt his own heart mend itself a little more.

* * *

The next room matched the previous one detail for detail: a rounded ellipsoid shape, bare of any decoration or feature. The floor was deep purple, the walls a steel blue, and there were two doors. The only difference was that this room held not one occupant, but two.

Oriné stood, mandibles parted in a blatant gape. "Yarna?" he said, staring at the first figure to which his eyes had locked on. The Elite Minor stood in his polished combat harness, matching Oriné's own in hue, upright in a casual posture. The other was equally surprising, clad in void-black armor harshly at odds with his green eyes, but equally recognizable. "Rtas?"

The two came forward and embraced him, touching foreheads with him in turn. "I am sorry to hear of Fulsa," Rtas said, voice full of regret. "She had been a beauty and a charm, but clearly not meant for this time."

"Faithful Unit grieves with you," Yarna said, "as do the many dancers we have courted and won over. One of them waits to comfort you, my friend."

Despite everything that had happened, Oriné felt a semblance of who he had been returning, a contentedness he had missed since leaving the _Transcendent Voyager _on this hellish errand. Now the sensation threatened to overwhelm him, made him feel like collapsing to the deck and sobbing, but his mind was painfully aware of what was expected of him, why he had come this far.

He turned to Rtas. "Where have you been?"

"After my first deployment," the green-eyed Sangheili said, "I was selected for service among the Prophet Blessed as an Operative. I was sent back to the Yermo province on Sanghelios, to study at the top war college in Iruiru." He clicked his mandibles. "Now I am here, before I accept my first mission in Special Operations."

Oriné never would have believed it. Though the black armor of the Prophet Blessed was very much revered among young Sangheili warriors, he had never thought any of his friends would have qualified for such an honor. Rtas least among them; Oriné had never believed him to be a subtle individual.

Next he looked to Yarna. "How is Faithful?"

"Well enough," the Councilor's son replied. "We have been relaxing, but missing your company fiercely." He gave Oriné a lopsided look. "I got an odd communiqué from my father not too long ago that I wished to discuss with you, but it can wait for another time."

Oriné nodded. "I was told I must face the Trial of Combat here," he said, "but instead I find two friends. What is this?"

"This is indeed the Trial," Rtas said somberly. "We are a part of it."

Yarna stepped forward. For the first time, Oriné noticed the energy sword on his hip, and he checked to make sure his own was still present. Rtas bore one too, but as an Operative of the Prophet Blessed, the Special Operations section of the Army, it was expected that he wield one.

Why two Elite Minors had them was beyond Oriné's understanding.

"I am your second," Yarna said. "If you wish to decline this duel, I must take your place."

Now Oriné understood the significance of the sword. He turned to Rtas, full of dread. "And you?"

"I am your opponent's second."

"Who is my opponent?"

Rtas twitched a mandible. "Should he not arrive soon, you'll never know."

For a few moments they stood in awkward silence, but just as Oriné opened his mouth to ask Rtas how he had been faring (and how he had become an Operative) the far doors lid apart, and a Sangheili in crimson armor strode into the room, sword already in hand.

Oriné's breath froze in his throat.

From his expression, Yarna was as shocked as he was, but Rtas calmly turned towards the new arrival. "Olah, it is good to see you again."

Olah 'Seroumee grunted a greeting, but kept his eyes trained perfectly on Oriné. All the Elite Minor could do himself was stare, though with far less control. He had tracked and captured a Jiralhanae and been drugged by his old flame just so he could duel one of his oldest and most trusted friends?

The Elite Major, however, did not seem to have the same compunction. His sword flashed to life, a horrendous crashing noise as the plasma spilled from the small hilt and crashed against the magnetic containment fields, shaping it into a two-pronged saber capable of inflicting grievous injury to the opponent when properly wielded, and grievous injury to the user if mishandled. They were weapons of ceremony and of death.

Olah held his like an expert. Oriné had never used one before in his life.

"Draw your blade, Oriné," Olah said. Compelled by the authoritative tone, the Elite Minor detached the hilt from his thigh, but did not squeeze the activation triggers. The Major frowned. "If you do not consent to this duel, Yarna will fight in your place."

The thought of his friend being forced to die for him created a sour taste in his mouth and made his hand rise higher, but still he did not turn on the blade.

_This is my final Trial?! The Hierarchs demand I kill one of my friends in combat!_ He held no illusions about the conditions of this battle: it would be to the death, not to first blood or first recoil. To win, he would have to kill Olah 'Seroumee, the Sangheili he remembered from Jisako, the one who drove him on through Institution, the one who saved him after the death of Hada 'Sobotee.

He would have to strike down his friend.

But if he refused, his other friend, whom he also loved like a brother, would take his place, and Oriné knew that Yarna's skill with a sword was the same as Oriné's: nil.

Olah tensed. The Elite Minor had to make a decision. With some effort he squeezed the contacts of the hilt down and the plasma blade sprung to life. Two white-hot prongs of energy exploded into existence, and suddenly Oriné's arm was weighed down by sixty extra pounds. He struggled to keep the blade at the ready.

He opened his mouth to try to perhaps talk Olah down, but the Elite Major was already in motion. Entering into a swinging lunge the higher-ranked Sangheili barreled towards Oriné, who was barely able to raise his sword in time to block. Tendrils of electrons flared between the blades as they collided, filling the air with sparks and an intense roaring sound. Barely able to keep his balance, Oriné stumbled back, slightly dazed from the blow, but Olah swung again. This time the Elite Minor sidestepped and brought up his own blade for a parry, swiping aside his friend's weapon, leaving Olah vulnerable.

But Oriné did not strike.

"Fool!" Olah cried out, slashing with his blade again. Oriné tried to stay light on his feet, but after just a few minutes of combat his hooves were feeling very heavy. His arm was burning from exertion. "You had an opening! Why did you hesitate?"

"I don't wish to harm you!" Oriné cried out in reply, falling back again but suddenly feeling the wall at his back. Panic seized him, and then an incredible pain blinded him: the entire world turned white. He came back to the sound of his own wail dying out and looked down, seeing two lengths of plasma sticking into his shoulder, impaling him. Blood sizzled against the contained energy. The pain was unbearable.

"Duty tells you to fight me," Olah hissed. "Duty to your Covenant."

"The Covenant that killed my sister!"

"No!" Olah twisted the blade. A new fountain of agony welled up in the Elite Minor. "You _allowed _the Covenant to kill your sister! Your blind faith in an institution bound you to its rules and made you complacent to its whim! When it said your sister must die, you defended her within its own limited system and didn't dare stray beyond it!" The blade was withdrawn, and Oriné slid down the wall, leaving a purple smear as he did so. A few feet away, Yarna and Rtas stood tensely by, watching the scene with growing anxiety.

"Confront your own sins rather than the Covenant's, Oriné," Olah said, towering over him. "In letting them put your sister to death, in following their guidelines, you have committed the ultimate act of submission." The twin points of death hovered before Oriné's face. "What is this one final command of amicicide?"

Somewhere inside him, Oriné's soul acknowledged the truth in those statements. Perhaps it was for that reason that he was suddenly overcome with bloodlust. Buried rage exploded forth and consumed him, filling his limbs with power. Instantly his arm came up and deflected Olah's blade, and he was on his feet. His mind was wiped clean by anger, an empty slate that was filled only with his training, memories of dueling maliers with Squadron Twenty-two, dueling nadier with Rtas.

Motion and thought blurred together. Suddenly Olah was on the defensive against Oriné's emotional onslaught, forced to parry and parry without being able to strike back. The Elite Minor pressed his advantage, brutally slashing, drawing from an inner reserve of blind hatred. In his mind, he was striking at the Covenant who murdered his sister, at the white-haired Jiralhanae, at Ekla, at his own weakness and doubts. The sword could destroy it all, undo what had been done, reverse time and space and take him back to the simpler days of living, when he and his sister played in the city and went with their parents to the lagoon, when Orna was still with them, ever the watchful older brother. Before she was a priestess, before he was a soldier, before they understood the Covenant better than just a bedtime prayer. It was within reach; all he had to do was extend his hand...

An unfamiliar sensation ran up his arm that jarred him out of his fury. His eyes focused on reality and he realized that his own blade had been shoved straight into Olah's chest. Purple blood gushed out from his friend's two destroyed hearts. For a moment, Oriné simply stood there, morbidly fascinated with the feeling of horror in his stomachs. It felt like a void, creating a bridge between the soldier he was and the warrior he could have been.

He had killed before, but he had never _felt_ someone die.

Instantly he released his hand, the blade snapping out of existence and the hilt falling to the floor, and he lunged and caught Olah's body before it could drop. The Elite Minor's mandibles worked to try and form an apology, but he couldn't coax any sound from his own throat.

Oriné wanted to hear some final words, a last phrase of explanation or forgiveness, or even condemnation. But there was none.

Olah 'Seroumee died in his arms without a sound.

* * *

The Three Trials were over. Through Knowledge, Faith, and Combat, Oriné 'Fulsamee had proven himself worthy of continued service and shown that he still held the Lords' favor: he had captured a vile prisoner, heard the speech of the Forerunners in his mind, and bested a superior officer in lethal combat. His Lineage was returned its honor. He would return to combat knowing that by hunting down a prisoner, lying to a holy practitioner about a vision, and murdering his friend, he had irreversibly bound himself to the will of the Hierarchs and of the Holy Covenant.

Any action otherwise would be a cosmic hypocrisy.

* * *

Oriné stood in the massive loading spike, watching as supplies were ferried onto the waiting cruiser _Triumphant Declaration_. Flanking him on either side was Rtas 'Vadumee and Yarna 'Orgalmee. They stood with him as he contemplated his latest assignment. Though still a member of S'gor Legion, Oriné was to be transferred to another battalion, one that primarily served as a guardian force for Inquisitors deployed to conquered worlds.

_Magister 'Alsakee would be pleased, in a way, _he told himself, recalling his uncle and teacher of Knowledge from so long ago who had wished for him to become an Inquisitor, as he himself had been. At the time Oriné had declined, but wondered if perhaps he had been too hasty. _I suppose now is when I may find out_.

He turned to his friends. "So where shall you two go?"

"I will return to Faithful Unit," Yarna said, sounding perhaps more sullen than he intended. "There are still a few days left of leave that I may enjoy. That saitarelé will miss your company, however." He laid a hand on his shoulder. "She had expressed such a desire to meet so compassionate an individual." Grinning, the other Elite Minor gave Yarna a light punch in the arm, then grew silent.

"Do you know..." Oriné trailed off, uncertain how to phrase his question. "Do you know who shall take command of Faithful now that Olah has been...?" The subject, though several days old, was still tender to him. Recent memories were enough to drag him into a prolonged state of sleepless depression; the Healers had prescribed him several types of herbs to ease his nights, but the feeling of hollowness persisted despite their efforts.

He knew it would never leave.

Yarna nodded. "I believe Toro 'Bodnolee is being transferred back to become our leader. I am sure he will be disappointed that your presence will no longer be available to calm the Unggoy."

In spite of himself, Oriné felt the ghost of a smile pull at his mandibles. It made him feel weary. He turned next to the black-clad Operative beside him. "And you, Rtas? I have heard nothing from you for so long. I wish our first reunion had been kinder than this."

"The next one certainly will be," the green-eyed Sangheili said, a knowing grin forming. "I am accepting a position as a member of the Special Operations detachment assigned to the exclusive command of one Supreme Commander Orna 'Fulsamee."

Oriné felt like he had just been run down by a Yorahii beast. "My brother has become a _Supreme Commander?_" For so long he had gone without word of his older sibling; apparently, Orna had been busy ascending the naval ranks with unprecedented speed.

The rank of Supreme Commander held incredible social and military weight. Higher than even a Fleet Master, a Supreme Commander held under his authority entire armadas capable of eliminating entire star systems. The Council would respect the decision of a Supreme Commander in equality with that of the Hierarchs. Clad in ornate purple armor with a sweeping robe of virility, they were the symbols of ultimate power within the navy.

_If Orna had been able to return for Fulsa's trial, would his influence have saved her? And in so doing prevented my murder of Olah? _Perhaps, Oriné reasoned, his input would be discounted due to his familial attachment. He decided not to dwell too much on it, but knew the thought would eat at him for months to come.

Recovering from the shock, Oriné regarded Rtas with an intense gaze. "If you see him, tell him that our mother and father would like word from him as soon as possible. As a Supreme Commander he should easily have clearance to send a personal message from wherever he is, and learning of his status would bring a light to both in this dark time. And pass on my own greetings and congratulations."

"I shall," said Rtas.

Oriné touched foreheads with them both, and after saluting stepped into the gravity lift that would take him down to the personnel loading level for the _Declaration_. He would return to the battlefield, more a warrior of the Covenant in despair than he had ever been in pride.


	14. Reach

Chapter 14: Reach

There was a trembling under the floor and a sensation in Alsa Sam's stomach that made her want to run to the nearest washroom, but there was none on a Covenant Phantom. Though at one point the shuttle's design had been reserved for dignitaries and diplomats, complete with refreshment facilities, a chance incident had led one astray into a human warzone, where it had been recommissioned as a temporary dropship for wounded warriors. It had performed so admirably that the army had immediately put in orders for combat-capable models armed with plasma turrets.

What she rode in, however, was the civilian model. The tremors and nausea were from the transfer from artificial gravity to natural. They persisted inconsistently as the craft made the gradual descent. She bit back her sickness. She had to be strong.

Alsa only knew these things because of her husband, her mate whom she loved and who had been recalled to duty. When she had found out she had screamed and cried, demanding to know why the Covenant was so determined to take from her all her love, but with his infinite patience Orita had managed to calm her the way only he could.

_You must be strong, my love_, he had said, half-dressed in his golden armor. _Have faith in the Forerunners and their Plan. We all walk the Path. Pray for Orna, for Oriné, for myself, and for our little secret._

Our little secret: the only reason she was bothering to return to Sanghelios.

Though the unpleasant sensation continued as the gravities were matched up, eventually the female Sangheili was able to push it out of her mind.

When the shuttle finally touched down, the pilot helped her down the rear ramp and onto the ground. With a cordial bow he was gone again, the Phantom lifting up into the sky to rejoin the cruiser that had passed by the planet and dropped her off, as well as several soldiers on leave.

She had often thought about the resources the war was consuming. There had been only a short break between the Jiralhanae war and the crusade against the humans. The Brutes hadn't even been properly adjusted to the Covenant before they stumbled across the human colony Harvest at the beginning of the war.

So many ships and weapons needed to be built, and more importantly, the manpower required for using them. She couldn't fathom the scale of it all.

The walk back to her Lineage's flat was long and lonely. In times past she had made this journey alone, either going to the home of a friend or to a distant market to find treats, but it was always with the expectation to find her mate waiting for her.

She arrived and ascended the gravity lift, stepping off on her balcony with practiced grace. Peeling aside the curtain she stepped into her cool home and put her bag on the floor. "Sasat?" she called. "Sasat, are you in?"

"Yes, my lady," came the gravely reply. The diminutive Unggoy female waddled out from the direction of the kitchen. "I apologize for not being able to greet you, but I have been busy tending to my duties. How was your trip?"

Alsa knew the slave maid was already aware of the outcome of the trial, but she did not want to discuss specifics now. She was tired and anxious. "I will tell you later," she said.

The Unggoy nodded. "Very well." She pointed down the hall. "He is in his room, my lady. He grew tired and wished to rest. He played long with Kasa Nom across the road. I do not think him to be ill." The Sangheili thanked her maid and went down the hall towards what had been Oriné's old room and Orna's before it. Inside was darkness, the thick shades closed against the midday light.

Barely visible in the dark was Maka Sam, her youngest son.

He had been conceived while Oriné was away on Jisako and Fulsa was studying at the Pontifectus Academies, and born when their middle son was at Institution. With all their children occupied, neither Alsa nor Orita had thought it proper to distract them with knowledge of the child.

It had been wrong, she realized now. They deserved to know. Fulsa died without ever knowing of the existence of her baby brother.

She crept into the room, careful not to disturb the quiet atmosphere. At the side of the bed she leaned in and nuzzled the boy lightly. He stirred slightly, one glassy eye cracking open. "Maulo?" he asked, voice still high in youth. "You're back. Is Paolu here too?"

"No, my child," she said, stroking his soft head. His skin was supple. "He has... gone away. For now."

He murmured something further and slipped off into sleep.

Alsa left the room, moving back to the entryway. She looked out over the balcony. The sun was waning. If the Covenant was determined to take from her all she had, she supposed she was powerless to stop it. But for as long as she could, she would keep this child safe.

_They will take my last breath before they will take my last son_.

* * *

"Down! Now!"

At his command, Oriné's Grunts threw themselves down behind a low rise; moments later heavy machine gun fire erupted, tearing apart the grassy earth. A few bullets scraped the tips of their methane breathers, but by and large they were unharmed.

Oriné, from his flanking position behind a low wall, watched as the Unggoy under his command crept closer and began firing over the top of the hill, green bolts and pink needles slicing the air and digging into the human firing positions. Though largely ineffective due to the level of cover afforded the humans, the Grunts' fire was providing an adequate distraction. The rise of the hill also gave the Unggoy enough time to duck down and avoid being hit.

With the humans distracted, Oriné raised his Carbine and fired. The thin green trails pierced three skulls and a throat, and threw their defenses into chaos. They were so distracted with the Grunts that they were unable to properly trace his shots.

As he stepped back behind the wall, his radio hissed. "'Fulsamee, what is your status?"

"Their defenses are weakened. My lance will be inside the facility in moments."

"How many Grunts have you lost?"

"None, Excellency."

Major Tokla 'Gerrolee chuffed his disapproval over the radio. He only viewed the Unggoy as fodder, good for little more than a few moments of distraction before being cut down. Before Oriné's arrival in Resolute Unit, the Grunt mortality rate was at a staggering seventy percent.

"Continue on your mission. 'Idylee and 'Talodee's lances are keeping the humans' attention, but we must eliminate these sentries to allow the demolition units through."

"How fares 'Nebudee?"

"Unknown. Out." 'Gerrolee wasn't known for his conversational talents, especially while under fire. In the past six years, the Elite Minor had learned that he couldn't rely on the Major for much information, but 'Gerrolee was familiar with the idea of leading from the front. He constantly sought honor and glory through combat, thinking nothing of putting himself in harm's way. He was also quick to assume credit for his unit's accomplishments and blame his subordinates for failures. Despite having served now for an unbroken six years on the front, any hope Oriné had of ascending to Major rank had been quashed by 'Gerrolee's achievement theft. On Escova, on Tulane, on Paris IV, he had fought with distinction and his superiors only ever recognized 'Gerrolee. But Oriné no longer fought for honor or glory. He fought only for duty.

The last human fell, trying to scream as a pink needle sliced through his windpipe. It exploded, decapitating him and leaving the door undefended. Oriné saw his chance. "Forward!" he cried, and the Unggoy jumped up and ran towards the door. The Elite Minor followed, boots slamming against the ground, until they were at the entrance. A quick glance inside revealed it to be clear.

"This is Resolute Unit, Second Lance," Oriné said into his radio. "Southwest entrance is clear for the Prophet Blessed." A moment later, a Phantom dropship came into view, descending from the madness above. Human Longswords and Hornets clashed against Covenant Banshees, filling the air with fire. The beetle-shaped Phantoms had become more and more common on the front lines recently; it had been phased in as a front-line dropship, relegating the Spirits to primarily Inquisitorial use. Oriné had been guarding Inquisitors when the call had come suddenly: the largest human naval base had been found, called Reach. Not wishing to miss the chance for honor, the Ship Master of the _Triumphant Declaration_ recalled all his units and left to join the Fleets of Particular Justice and Vengeful Light.

Likely he would be punished for abandoning the Inquisitors, but Reach was far too tempting a target.

Hovering above the ground, a small gravity lift began depositing troops. Several black-armored Elites and Grunts descended, taking up defensive positions around the landing site. Two Sangheili disembarked, carrying between them a large bomb. Oriné suppressed a smirk; he had always believed Special Operations to be far more stealthy, but he was increasingly aware of their less-than-subtle tendencies.

Quickly the entire unit trooped into the building, leaving Oriné and his lance outside. The Unggoy looked at him expectedly, and he inclined his head. "We must meet up with Major 'Gerrolee," he said. "Onward." They took up a steady pace away from the building and towards the rendezvous spot.

Minutes later they arrived, finding the Major talking over the radio. As Oriné opened his mouth to report, there was a resounding explosion, the very earth beneath his feet heaving and nearly toppling him. Two of his Unggoy did fall. Looking over his shoulder, he saw pillars of smoke rising from where the groundside generators for the humans' planetary defense guns had been.

Turning around, he found 'Gerrolee watching him intently. Oriné straightened. "Mission completed, Excellency."

"Not a moment too soon," the Major growled, disengaging his radio. "The Supreme Commander of the Fleet of Particular Justice is rallying ships to chase down a human ship fleeing the battle. Our Ship Master wishes to join him and has sent emergency recall orders."

Oriné frowned. "One ship? Surely it is of little consequence. We do not think it is fleeing back to their home world, do we?"

"No, but we suspect there may be a Demon aboard."

Demon. The thought made Oriné shiver. Demons were human soldiers, clad in brilliant green armor with reflective orange visors. Their skills and capabilities were frightening, oft reputed to be able to take down entire battalions on their own, independent from the rest of the human military. Being of strength, intelligence, and cunning, even the Sangheili feared their reputation; many glory-seekers had been killed attempting to bring down a Demon.

If fleet rumor was to be believed, Reach was their home world. The Demon escaping in that ship could be the last of its kind.

A Spirit began descending from the clouds. Oriné signaled for his lance to prepare to leave. "What of the others?" he asked, checking his Carbine. It was out of ammunition and he had no refills. He left it in a crate and chose a plasma rifle instead. "Shall we meet them in orbit?"

"I cannot reach 'Nebudee, nor 'Talodee, nor 'Idylee. I suspect they have fallen in combat." Inside, Oriné felt a pang of sorrow and guilt. Once before he had survived, alone, amongst his unit: on Pearl, amidst a wasteland of snow and ice, he had survived through chance as the rest of his comrades perished. Again, his life seemed to be repeating itself.

"Very well," he said quietly. The dropship touched down and opened its doors. Quickly hopping in, Oriné and his Grunts fastened themselves into the troop compartments. The doors closed and the ship lifted off, rising rapidly. From the viewing slot, Oriné watched as the ground fell away. He could see the individual skirmishes for a while, Covenant lines clashing with the heavily entrenched humans, overwhelming the heretic aliens with force and numbers. Then he could see entire battlefields, fronts made clear by smoke and fire. Human and Covenant air vehicles clashed repeatedly in the sky, amber and sapphire fireballs exploding, engulfing lies. Then they began to leave the atmosphere behind, and the Elite Minor could see the ships, the sleek Covenant vessels taking up orbits while the last of the human fleet burned in the atmosphere.

Again, the war claimed many lives. Again, the Covenant would be victorious, and again, the humans would burn for their heresy. His heresy was different from theirs, but Oriné had different circumstances: he had sacrificed all for another chance. He had watched his sister die and killed his friend in order to give himself the opportunity to prove his loyalty.

He fought for duty. No longer could he find glory in the Covenant, but still there was duty.

Discovery, war, death. Repeated forever, a cycle of life itself.

Life moved in cycles. He remembered when he realized it, when he was in High Charity playing guard and lover to Ekla of Lat, when he was a cadet in Institution. He had been sitting in a chapel, praying hard for forgiveness, for a way to break the cycle. Now he understood: there was no breaking it. The Forerunners decreed its continuance, and he would follow. He was not the axel around which the wheel turned; he was not even a spoke that connected reality with the Grand Design. He was merely part of the rim.

Oriné 'Fulsamee's cycle would begin again.

* * *

**Legal Message:**

I do not own Halo: Combat Evolved, Halo 2, or Halo 3, the Halo novels, or any part of the extended universe. Those masterpieces go to Bungie and Microsoft Game Studios. My ownership extends only to those characters which I created, and if Bungie feels like seizing them, then I'm sure I can't stop them.

**Reader Message:**

All right! Another one in the pipe. Took my sweet time with this, but hey, it gets better every time. So now you know the "secret" of Oriné's past. When I first started writing _Negative Halo_, I had a very basic idea, but in it, Ekla was the one who was accused of heresy, and there was no Fulsa. I think this version turned out to be much better.

Next up is _Negative Halo 3_, which will debut on January 1st, 2009. Why then? Well, why not?

I would like to once again thank Jillybean and an REG Omega for their assistance in coming up with ideas for Sangheili culture. Jill is directly responsible for the nadier, and I pretty much lifted Omega's name suffixes from his profile.

See you in a few months.


End file.
